


Visiting Hours

by VampireBadger



Series: Visitorverse [6]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Gen, Seriously guys SO MUCH DESMOND, So much Desmond, but also some sad stuff, hopefully some hugging, time travel-ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 05:51:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 95
Words: 127,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4817489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VampireBadger/pseuds/VampireBadger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The continuing adventures of the Visitorverse, because it's too full of stories to stop writing in, apparently. Expect character hugs and characters being miserable, probably in equal amounts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The universe, Desmond is starting to realize, is a cold place. Cold and cruel and… and unfair in a way that seems perfectly calculated to make Desmond miserable. It's almost like someone is out there, watching him, _enjoying_ the torture they're putting him through. They-

"Des?"

He looks up and sees Rebecca waiting for him to notice her. By the expression on her face, she must have been waiting there a while. Desmond does his best to smile, but it doesn't quite work. "Sorry," he says. "I didn't see you there." 

"You looked kind of lost in thought," Rebecca says. She settles down in the chair next to his hospital bed, and Desmond watches as her eyes stray downward to the charred husk of a limb that used to be a normal, working arm. "Not that you don't have good reason to be, I guess."

"The doctor says they might have to amputate," Desmond says, although he hadn't been thinking about his arm at all. "They might try skin grafts first, but there's so much damage it probably won't work. And dad says we'll have to leave soon, so the amputation would be faster…"

"I'm so sorry," Rebecca says softly. "It's not fair. You spent all that time in the animus, risked your sanity, and then you were willing to give your life to save the world-"

"Didn't die, though," Desmond says, and Rebecca is silent as she nods. The only sound in the room is the beeping of the machines monitoring what feels like every part of Desmond's body. They both sink back into their own separate thoughts and distractions.

The worst part of it is that Desmond doesn't think he would even mind losing his arm. Compared to everything else he's lost, it would barely even register. Because the truth… the _truth_ is…

The truth is, he keeps expecting to wake up in the middle of the night with Edward draped awkwardly across him. He keeps expecting to suddenly appear in the middle of another century, maybe just in time to see Shay and Aveline do something that will scar him for life. He keeps expecting the _hole_ in his _head_ to just _go away_ already.

But it's been a month since he (very nearly) sacrificed his life to save the rest of the world, and that night in the temple was the last time he'd seen any of his visitors. Then he'd woken up, feeling sane and sad and empty. Which maybe, a few months ago, wouldn't have bothered him so much. But the really ironic part of it all was that he knows now that it was all real. The thing in the temple hadn't killed him, but what it had done was blow away all traces of the bleeding effect from his mind. No more ghostly hallucinations, no more unexpected feelings, no more visitors.

For about two days after he'd woken up, he'd thought it was the greatest thing ever. He could have his life back. Or some kind of a life, anyway, because there was no way he could leave the assassins again, not after everything that had happened. But things are better now (right?). They're supposed to be.

They aren't. Because on the third day, Desmond's father had brought him some old footage from his time in the animus and told him to sit down and watch it all. Desmond had argued, but his father had won (he always won), and so a good part of Desmond's convalescence had been spent watching footage he'd already lived through once. Because apparently, to borrow his father's choice of words, he wasn't doing anyone any good 'lying around in bed,' and the least he could do was go through it all again and make sure they hadn't missed anything while they were rushing to stop the end of the world.

But all Desmond ever finds is evidence of visiting. His ancestors talking to each other, about each other, about him. To him, even. And without the bleeding effect to serve as a convenient explanation, Desmond has no way to explain it except with the admission that all of it had been real.

Funny, the way he could never accept it until he couldn't see them anymore.

Eventually, as the light outside the room's single window starts to fade, Rebecca gets up and pats Desmond on the shoulder. His good shoulder, the one that's not covered in burns and bandages. "I should get going," she says. "But I'll be back tomorrow."

"Do you have to leave?" Because maybe it's needy, but Desmond hasn't yet gotten used to being alone again.

"Sorry," she says, already gathering her things. "Hospital policy, Des. Visiting hours are over."


	2. Chapter 2

It was snowing outside, and Desmond thought longingly of Christmas as he stared out the window of his tiny bedroom. Today was December 24th, and Desmond had not quite managed to give up on the idea that this year, maybe, Santa might remember to come to their house. Last year, his dad had told him Santa wasn't even _real_ , but Desmond knew better. Of course Santa, was real, he _had_ to be because… because well, it would be really sad if he wasn't.

But he was five this year, and he was starting to get worried. Because Santa didn't bring presents for grown-ups, and Desmond wasn't sure what the cutoff was. Maybe he was running out of time, and if Santa didn't find their house soon, he would never get a chance at having a Christmas.

Luckily, Desmond had a top secret, super awesome plan that he'd been working on since October. Santa liked cookies and milk, everyone knew that, and so Desmond had been hoarding cookies. His mom didn't make them very often, but sometimes she did, and Desmond had started carefully wrapping them up and hiding them in the secret places of his bedroom.

He'd tried stealing milk, too, but that hadn't worked out too well. His dad was still mad at him about that, and his bedroom was maybe going to smell like sour milk for the rest of his life. Hopefully the cookies would be enough.

At well past midnight, when Desmond was pretty sure his parents were asleep, he grabbed his secret stash and went creeping downstairs. He had _almost_ made it when suddenly he felt something like a weird tingle in the back of his head, and he was somewhere else.

He thought about being worried about this, because after all it was kind of weird, but then he shrugged and decided against it. There were lots of weird things in the world he didn't know about, after all. He was only five, he didn't know about all of them yet. Desmond looked around again, trying to figure out what was going on, but all he saw was a little boy about his age, one that Desmond knew for sure he had seen before. "Ratonhnhaké:ton?" he asked. The boy had come visiting a while ago, when the strangers had come to dig up the dinosaur.

"Go away." The boy was curled up on the ground with his arms wrapped around himself. "I don't want any visitors."

"Well my mom says you're imaginary," Desmond said, sitting down next to Ratonhnhaké:ton. "So you should go away."

Desmond saw the way Ratonhnhaké:ton flinched when he mentioned his mom, and nudged him in the side. "What's wrong?"

"Go _away_ ," Ratonhnhaké:ton wailed, and Desmond frowned at him. Then he looked down at his cookies. _Santa's_ cookies. There were six of them, five sugar and one peanut butter (Desmond liked peanut butter best, and it was hard to remember to not eat them). He picked up one of the sugar cookies and carefully offered it to Ratonhnhaké:ton. Maybe five cookies would be enough for Santa.

"Here," he said.

For a second, Ratonhnhaké:ton didn’t answer. He just looked at the cookie like he'd never seen one before. But at least he wasn't telling Desmond to go away again. "What is that?"

"It's a cookie," Desmond said. "It's yummy."

Ratonhnhaké:ton sat up and took the cookie, carefully trying a bite. When he liked it, he ate the rest, and looked a little bit happier after. "My mother is dead," he admitted to Desmond when he was done. "My father was visiting, like you, and he didn't save her."

"I'm sorry," Desmond said. Ratonhnhaké:ton shrugged, like it didn't even matter. Or like it mattered so much he didn't know what to say. But he was looking at the other five cookies in Desmond's hand, and Desmond felt bad, so he gave him another one. Then he ate the peanut butter cookie himself. If four was good enough for Santa, than three couldn't be much worse. And he was hungry, anyway. For a couple minutes, the two of them sat and ate their cookies together in silence.

"I miss her," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, and he looked so miserable that Desmond started to feel sad too. And he didn't even know Ratonhnhaké:ton's mother. He looked down at the last three cookies in his lap, and thought hard about what he was about to do. After all, if Santa missed his house again this year, it would be a whole twelve months before Desmond would have another chance. He would be six then, and six was old. Maybe too old for Santa? He didn't know for sure.

"Here," he said, shoving what was left of his top secret plan to bring Santa to his house over to Ratonhnhaké:ton.

"Really?"

"Yea." Desmond tried not to sound like he was already having second thoughts.

"Thank you!" Ratonhnhaké:ton said, and his surprised smile was the last thing Desmond saw before he was suddenly back home, cookie-less and tired. It was past midnight, and after all if he wasn't going to be able to bring Santa here, there was no reason not to go to bed. Maybe next year. If he was lucky.

Desmond turned around, went back to his room, and fell asleep as soon as he crawled into bed.

The next morning, he woke up to find his mom sitting in bed with him, rubbing his back gently to wake him up. He blinked sleepily at her, and she smiled back. "Merry Christmas, baby," she said.

"Merry Christmas, momma," he answered, voice muffled because he was still half buried in his pillow.

"We had a visitor last night," she said, and for half a sleepy minute, the word visitor made Desmond think she was talking about Ratonhnhaké:ton. Then she handed him a box wrapped in brown paper, and Desmond gasped and sat up to take it from her.

"Santa!" he said. "Santa came?"

His mom hugged him and smiled. "Just don't tell your dad, alright?"

He nodded and smiled and decided that this was best Christmas there had ever been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, I can also be nice to Desmond.


	3. Chapter 3

Ezio is an old man, old and tired, when he comes at last to the end of his time as an assassin. He had thought often, in his younger years, of how he would eventually leave the order. Back then, he had imagined some blaze of glory, overwhelmed by enemies and fighting the good fight. He had never dreamed it would end like this, with a peaceful retirement and a wife. Children, even, because how else would Desmond have come to be?

All that's left is Altair's library, and Ezio hurries inside with the thought that he will get this over with as quickly as possible and then return to his Sophia. But when he at least finds his way inside, to the remains of the man that had been his visitor and his friend, Ezio's feet stutter and stop. "Ah, Altair," he breathes. It doesn't quite feel right to speak out loud in this place. "My old friend…"

"Old indeed," a tired voice breathes at his side, and Ezio half jumps and then moves at once to support Altair as the man arrives on an ill-timed visit. He is older than Ezio has ever seen him, and he thinks by the quiet resignation in the man's eyes that these may be Altair's last moments. They stand together and study the remains in front of them.

"Are you alright?" Ezio asks, quietly.

"I am about to become that," Altair says, nodding at the skeleton. "I am not alright, I am dying."

"In your mind, I mean," Ezio says hesitantly. "Are you afraid?"

"No."

"I am," Ezio says. "I'm about to lose a friend."

"No," Altair says. His voice is somehow both dismissing and comforting at the same time. "I have seen you older than this, happy and with your family. This is not the last goodbye, for you."

"But it won't be the same," Ezio argues. "It will be like all the times we've seen Desmond since he died." Because it's hard to see Desmond now. It's like looking at a ghost, displaced in time but still definitively deceased.

"Well try not to mourn, at least," Altair tells him, and Ezio smiles because he cannot deny his old friend's last request.

Then he gestures toward the light that shines at the other end of the room. "That is your apple?" he asks.

"It is." Altair frowns at the sight of it, and suddenly his eyes look sharp again. Some last surge of energy makes him straighten up and pull Ezio forward toward the light. "And something is wrong."

"Wrong? What could be wrong with it?"

"There is someone here," Altair says, but it's not until Ezio focuses on the air around the apple, looking it over in eagle vision, that he sees it.

"Oh," he says softly. "Oh! Who is that?"

The figure wavers indistinctly in eagle vision, shining the blue of an ally mixed with the inhuman golden light of the apple. It has its back to them, so all Ezio can see is some kind of white coat with a hood. An assassin, maybe, but Ezio feels the tingle of a visitor, more strongly than he would have from just Altair. He looks over at the older assassin, and the man nods with determination. They move slowly across the floor, Altair still leaning against Ezio's side.

The figure doesn't seem to notice them, but as they get closer Ezio sees that the figure is wearing his coat oddly. One arm has not been pulled through the sleeve, so that the clothes hang oddly off that shoulder. When he turns, Ezio's eyes are drawn unavoidably toward the charred husk of a limb that dangles like a dead thing from the figure's shoulder. It is only when Altair gasps and tightens his hold on Ezio that he notices the man's face.

"Des-" Words fail him, and for once in his life Ezio is speechless. He gapes at Desmond like a dying fish, at the hand burned from what _must be_ contact with that thing in the temple, that thing that _killed him_.

"Desmond," Altair says warmly, and Desmond smiles at him before hurrying forward toward the pair.

"I thought I would never see any of you again," he says, and surprises the other two by the way he immediately hugs them both.

"You're dead," Ezio protests. Then he frowns at Altair. "And you're dying." If this turns out to be some kind of uncomfortable haunting, Ezio will be very unhappy. Or maybe he is dead as well, and hasn't noticed yet- perhaps that would explain the presence of the two dead men at his side.

"I'm not dead," Desmond says. "I just sort of lost an arm. And… and you guys." The stricken look on his face intensifies as he speaks, so that Ezio is left with no doubt which of these losses he regrets more. "I'm so sorry."

"For what?" Ezio demands. The idea of being alone, without any visitors alone, seems like a punishment to him. Not something to be sorry for.

"I never really believed you were- I thought all the visits were just the bleeding effect," Desmond says. "And then by the time I finally figured out that this was all real I was done visiting."

"Why are you back now, then?" Ezio asks. Desmond shrugs, gesturing vaguely at the apple of Eden behind them. It seems as good an explanation as any. And then, despite everything, despite the fact that he obviously doesn't know why he's here or if he'll ever be back again, Desmond breaks into a smile. His grin, wide enough to almost split his face in two, makes him look happier than Ezio has ever seen him, and he bounces a little on the balls of his feet.

"I'm here now," he says. "And you're both _real_."

Altair laughs at him, coughing a little at the effort, and the other two quickly move to guide him into a more comfortable position. When they are both supporting him, and he has managed to regain enough breath to speak, the words begin, a flood of conversation as they catch up on everything they have missed with each other while Desmond was gone. For a little while, it's easy for Ezio to forget the circumstances of this visit, and that he should be feeling sad.

Later, when Altair's visit ends and his bent and ancient body flickers away from them, Ezio turns to Desmond. "I am glad you're alive," he says.

"I'm glad you're real," Desmond answers. And he looks happy, for perhaps the first time in Ezio's memory. "I'm glad I got to see you both again."

Then he too is gone, and Ezio is alone with the skeleton of one of his oldest friends, and the gentle golden glow of the apple against the opposite wall. His chest feels full as he stands, somber almost, but still content. He feels… at peace, yes. It has been a long time since he felt that all was right with the world, and Ezio savors this moment, moving slowly and with purpose. He strips off his weapons, letting them fall to the ground. He knows that the adventures of his life are not quite over yet, that they cannot be for as long as he still visits with friends scattered all across the centuries. But his own journey, at last, is over. So Ezio, with no regrets at all, leaves his weapons behind, and walks onward and upward, into the light of a new day where Sofia waits for him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look, I wrote about someone that isn't Desmond!

Shay notices the change in scenery as he goes off visiting late that night, but when he feels himself relocated onto what feels like just another bed, declines to open his eyes and find out where he is. Surely, whoever he is visiting would understand. Shay is exhausted and wants a full night's sleep, no matter when that full night happens to take place.

He has only been there a few minutes, however, not even long enough to drop back to sleep, when he feels something warm and small curl into his side, the tiny hands of a child wrapping around his nightclothes. To Shay's sleep addled brain, it makes perfect sense- with four children at home now, it was a rare night that saw him and Aveline alone in bed. He is used to children with nightmares, children worried by thunder, children too lonely to last the night in their own rooms- he simply moves one arm over the child's skinny shoulders, and allows himself to drift toward sleep.

Maybe an hour later, he wakes again to the distinctive, sniffling sounds of a little girl trying hard not to cry. The sound is so unexpected, and so absolutely _sad_ that Shay opens his eyes to see what the matter is.

At first glance, he thinks the girl in his arm is Jeanne. His daughter is ten years old now, about the same age as this girl, and there is a strong similarity. But Jeanne is not so dark, and as Shay's brain gradually wakes, he realizes that this is a visit, and that of course Jeanne could not come with him on a visit. But if that's true, there is only one person this could possibly be.

Shay sits up, not sure what the right thing to do here would be. The girl lets herself slide away from him, curling up instead in the hollow his body has left in the mattress. It would have been a sad enough sight in any stranger, but Shay is no fool. Every visitor but Aveline is male, and this is a little girl, and so this must be Aveline.

He has never met his wife as a child, but apart from the surprise, he is more upset to find Aveline crying than he is about suddenly see a new part of her life. Shay isn't quite sure what to say, so he just shifts slightly closer to run his hand slowly through her hair. The crying intensifies, so that although it is no louder, Aveline's whole body shakes with the effort of trying to keep it inside.

"You can cry," Shay says softly. "It's okay."

"I want to be brave," Aveline whispers, around her muffled tears.

"You are," Shay says, and there must be enough conviction in his voice to get through to her, because she actually stops crying and looks up at him. Her eyes are sadder than he has ever seen them.

"How do you know?" she asks. Shay smiles at her, because Aveline is probably the bravest person he has ever met, but he can't tell her any of that.

"I just know," he says. He lifts her gently so that she's sitting up, and puts a businesslike tone in his voice. "Now, why are you crying?"

"My mother left," she tells him. Her voice is tight with grief, and it's obvious that this is a new hurt for her. "I don't know if she's coming back, and she didn't even say goodbye."

"She'll come back," Shay tells her. "Just be patient."

"For how long, though?"

Rather than answer, because he knows that she won't like knowing she has to wait _years,_ Shay hugs her. It is an impulsive action that he supposes must seem very strange to Aveline, considering she's never met him before. But she doesn't seem to mind, hugging him back with what feels like all the strength in her tiny body. Maybe she is even lonelier than she looks. For a long time, she doesn't move, and then suddenly she tilts her head back to get a good look at his face. To Shay's surprise, she is grinning. It is definitely a _wet_ grin, soaked through from all her crying, but there is a glimmer there of the same indomitable Aveline that Shay will one day fall in love with.

"You're very nice," she says. "Why are you here?"

"I'm here to help you feel better," Shay says, after some little consideration. "Because I made a promise."

"What kind?"

"An important one," he says vaguely, because she is not yet ready to know what he promised her- to have and to hold, for better and for worse, for richer and poorer, in sickness and in health. He doesn't see a reason those vows should stop counting just because this is a visit, and if he can do something to make Aveline hurt less, he will.

She scoffs at him, shaking her head so that the long braid running down her back wags behind her. "Grown-ups are all so silly," she says. "Why does everything have to be secret?"

"I'll tell you when you're older," he says, because he wants to see the way she scowls, lower lip jutting out and arms folded over her chest. It's adorable, and behind her annoyance Shay can see her beginning to brighten a little. The loss of her mother is not a hurt that Aveline will get over quickly, but Shay hopes he has helped a little.

"Lie down," he tells her when she starts to yawn. "Try to sleep."

She does so, reluctantly, and Shay tucks her blankets around her. Aveline reaches out and grabs at his hand when he tries to leave. "You didn't even tell me your name," she complains.

"Shay."

"Shay," she repeats. "I'm Aveline."

He nods and squeezes her hand while her eyes start to drift closed. "Will you stay with me, Shay?"

"For as long as I can," he promises. Aveline is quiet for a long time, until Shay thinks she may have fallen asleep. Then she finally speaks again.

"Maybe mother will be happy now," she whispers. "Wherever she is. She's been fighting with my father, because he married a white woman instead of her."

Madeline de L'Isle, a templar Aveline would one day kill. Shay again decides it is best to say nothing.

"Shay?" Aveline opens her eyes again, just a little bit. "Do you think my mother and my father love each other?"

"I'm sure they do," he assures her. "In their own way."

"Do you think… someday, do you think somebody will love me?"

A torrent of emotions and words rise up in Shay's chest, fighting to be heard. He wants to tell her everything, to reassure her that she will find love, a home, a family, but all he says is, "Yes."

"Good," she murmurs, the word slurring a little in sleep as she squirms into a more comfortable position beneath the blankets. Shay cannot help noticing how she inches closer to him, curling into his side the way she had earlier. He watches her, fingers wrapped around her tiny hand, until finally her breathing evens and he decides that she is definitely asleep.

Shay leans over, and gives her a brief, chaste kiss on the forehead that makes her smile a little, as if at a happy dream.


	5. Chapter 5

Edward comes home from his latest contract with dirt caked onto his clothes and dried blood in the awkward, hard to clean places that will need a good long soak to wash off. He is hungry and tired and is looking forward to a quiet homecoming. It has been too long since he saw his wife and daughter and- thanks to a miscalculation in his travel plans- he's missed Haytham's birthday.

When he walks in the front door, he is expecting to be greeted by a very sad and disappointed seven year old, but that is not what happens. Edward has only had time to pull off his boots when Haytham comes running down the stairs and throws his arms around Edward's waist.

"Father!"

"Happy birthday," Edward tells him, kneeling down to hug him back. "Did you miss-"

But Haytham is already pulling away from him, running back the way he's come. "I'm glad you're home," he calls over his shoulder. "Bye!"

"Hey!" Edward protests, feeling oddly slighted by this greeting. "Haytham, come back here."

Haytham stops, reluctantly, halfway up the stairs. He sort of turns around, hanging off the banister. "What's wrong, father?"

"What aren't you telling me?" Edward asks.

"Nothing," Haytham says, and no parent in the world would have believed his tone just then.

"Haytham."

He bites his lip and looks up suddenly as something crashes to the floor upstairs- it's followed by what sounds like half a dozen running pairs of feet. Edward spares a second to take in the stricken expression on Haytham's face before he hurries upstairs ahead of his son. Haytham protests all the way upstairs, but Edward ignores him. He heads straight for Haytham's bedroom, opens the door, and freezes just across the threshold.

"I _know_ I'm not supposed to have friends over but they were just here and I didn't do anything I _promise_ so it's okay if they stay, isn't it? It was my birthday yesterday, father, and-"

"Shh," Edward whispers, taking in the sight in front of him, and Haytham stops speaking at once. "Just- give me a second here."

Haytham nods, staying quiet this time, and Edward turns his attention back to the visitors that have come for his son's birthday. Because really, visitors is exactly the right word. There are seven children hunched over whatever they've broken, none of them older than Haytham is now. Edward recognizes Connor and Desmond at once- he's seen them this young before- but the others take a little more mental effort.

Aveline is easy to identify, the only girl in a crowd of boys, her knees and elbows scraped and half healed from some old misadventure. Ezio, too, is not much of a puzzle- at seven, he has apparently already mastered the easy, charming smile that will get him out of and into so much trouble later in life. Shay sits cross legged on the floor at the edge of the group, not quite one of them but not quite excluded, either. His hair is shaggy and long overdue for a cut, and he keeps brushing it out of his eyes. That leaves Altair as the dark skinned boy, shorter than the others and still holding onto the remnants of some baby fat that Edward would _never_ have imagined him having.

The little blonde boy at the other side of the room from Edward, the one that smells strongly of sheep, looks up at him for a second, loses interest, and goes back to tugging on Aveline's braid. Edward keeps staring for another several seconds because- well, this is a new one. He doesn't think any of the visitors has seen a past version of themselves before.

"Father?" Haytham prompts him at last. "Am I in trouble?"

Edward snaps back to himself, shaking his head. "No," he says. He looks back at Haytham, smiling like he can't believe his luck. He knows his son wants friends more than anything Edward could possibly have brought him for his birthday. And even if he apparently won't remember this as an adult, Edward can't think of any better friends for Haytham to have. At least he knows he can trust everyone here. "But first, I have a present for you."

"Really?"

"It is your birthday," Edward says, and points at the broken mess still on the floor. "Clean that up, I'll bring the present up here."

Haytham nods determinedly and starts organizing the others to help as Edward goes back downstairs.

When Edward comes back upstairs, half an hour later, the broken whatever is gone but the rest of the room is a mess. An inevitable result of eight children in an enclosed space together, maybe. Edward chooses to turn a blind eye for the moment.

He hangs back in the doorway for a minute, for the chance to watch without anyone noticing. It's sort of funny, how easily they play together, and Edward thinks how much _easier_ this whole visiting thing would have been at the beginning if any of them remembered days like this. He looks again at the blonde boy- at _himself,_ give or take a few decades- and tries to remember this day. But no, he can barely remember anything from when he was seven, it was so long ago. This day is just gone.

The younger Edward is in the middle of a tussle with Ezio, rolling around on the floor while both of them shout at each other. The fight ends abruptly as Edward hits his head against the hardwood floor, and Ezio immediately stops to make sure he's okay. The older Edward winces from his place at the door, and runs a hand over the back of his head like he's expecting to find a bump there. Okay, so apparently there's a reason he doesn't remember this so well.

"What are you fighting about, anyway?" Desmond asks. He's sitting on Haytham's bed, looking at Edward and Ezio like they're both crazy. Ezio is still looking at the bump on Edward's head, and Edward seems like he's distracted by trying not to cry, so Aveline is the one that answers.

 "They both want to play with me," she says. "But-" she turns back to Edward and Ezio, crossing her arms. "I don't want to play with _either_ of you anyway."

"Oh," Desmond says. He wrinkles up his face in confusion. "Why are you fighting over a girl? They're icky."

"Hey!" Aveline protests.

"You have cooties," Desmond says. " _Everyone_ knows girls have cooties."

"What's a cootie?" Altair asks. He's sitting between Desmond and Connor, looking even smaller than he actually is compared to the two of them. Edward debates the idea of telling the adult Altair how adorable he used to be the next time they run into one another, and decides it's probably a bad idea.

"It's a really gross thing that girls have," Desmond says knowledgeably. "And they can give you cooties too if they try to kiss you."

Altair says nothing, but the way his face twists up in disgust is expressive enough on its own.

Aveline sticks out her tongue at him, and walks across the room to where Shay and Haytham are sitting. They're a little way apart from the others, playing with Haytham's toy soldiers. "I wanna play with you," she tells Shay, poking him in the side so that he giggles and puts his hands over his mouth.

"You want to play with me?" he asks, through his fingers.

"You have pretty hair," she says. "Can I braid it?"

Edward laughs aloud at this, and Haytham finally looks up and sees him. "Father!" he calls. "Did you bring my present?"

"Well, I was thinking that maybe I should give it to one of your friends-"

"Father!" Haytham protests. He abandons his game with Shay (although at this point, Shay is distracted trying to figure out what Aveline is doing with his hair) and runs over. "No no no no!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!"

"Alright." Edward sits down on the floor, and Haytham immediately crouches next to him, leaning against his father's side. "I actually have two for you." He isn't entirely sure Haytham will like his present, so he'd stopped and picked up some more toy soldiers at the last minute. Haytham says thank you very politely, but he laughs out loud when he sees his second present.

"I like it," he says. "Can I wear it?"

Edward grins back at him and settles the hat on top of Haytham's head. It's a little too big for him, so that Haytham has to push it out of his eyes to be able to see anything. "Here you go, Hat Man," he says, and Haytham beams.

"Hat Man?" he laughs. "I wanna be Hat Man!"

"It sounds like a weird superhero," Desmond calls from the bed, and Edward realizes the others must have been listening. "Like Spiderman, except instead of having spider powers, you have… hat… powers..?" he trails off, apparently confused by the concept of hat powers.

"You don't like my hat?" Haytham asks.

"It looks like a taco," Desmond says, and then when Haytham looks genuinely upset, quickly adds, "I like tacos."

"Okay." He reaches up and hugs Edward. "Thank you, really," he says.

"You like it?" Edward had quite honestly been drinking a little when he came up with the idea of a hat as a birthday present. It had seemed _really funny_ at the time, but Haytham won't get the joke for decades.

"Sure," Haytham says. "It's from you!"

Edward kisses Haytham on the top of the head and stands up. "Alright," he says, as he catches Haytham's attention starting to stray back to the others. "I'll leave you to your games, then."

-//-

When he comes back a few hours later, the room is quiet, apart from the sound of soft breathing. Edward takes a few more steps into the room, and smiles at what he sees. All eight of them are piled on top of Haytham's bed, tangled together in a heap of arms and legs. Even Connor, the most touch sensitive of the group, is smiling in his sleep, curled up with his back against Haytham's side, and Desmond's head on his stomach. The rest of them are just as close, and for a second Edward aches for this memory. It's a weird feeling, being jealous of his past self, but then there's the younger Edward with his feet in Shay's face and one hand holding onto Haytham's. Edward sighs and realizes glumly that he's starting to feel old.

Edward sits down in a chair nearby and watches until, one by one, the heap of children on the bed is reduced as the visitors are pulled back home. The last to go is Connor- he rolls over without waking, curling closer to Haytham, who also doesn't wake. They just huddle closer together, as if sensing the sudden emptiness of the bed around them. And then Connor is gone too, and Haytham opens his eyes.

He sees Edward at once, and frowns. "Did everybody leave?" he asks.

"Yes, they did."

"Why didn't they say bye?"

"They'll be back," Edward promises him. "Eventually."

"To stay?"

"No," Edward says. He smiles a little. "Just to visit."


	6. Chapter 6

Desmond is staring at the place where his arm used to be.

He does that a lot, now. Just sits and stares at the part of him that is missing. (Because the other part, the… the family he's lost, isn't something he can't look at or talk about). He knows it's unhealthy to dwell on all the things he has lost, but it's easier to think about the past that is gone than the future he doesn't have. So today, like most days, he just sits and stares.

Until for once, he is interrupted. A pair of rough hands grabs his stump (arm, he remembers- the doctors had told him not to think of it like that, because it wasn't going to help him feel any better to start seeing himself as a cripple). Slowly, the bandages come off, pulling at the still healing skin underneath. Desmond mumbles a complaint and tries to pull away, but the grip on his stu- his arm is strong.

"If you can't take care of yourself, you have to let someone else do it for you," his father scolds. "The bandages need to be changed, Desmond, or you increase the risk of infection."

"Okay."

"No," William says, and Desmond feels some brief flicker of annoyance flare up inside him. "It's not okay. You need to be taking care of yourself-"

"Why?" Desmond demands. He jerks his arm away from his father so that the rest of the bandages tear away, rusty red and stiff with dried blood. "I did my damn job, saved the world. I'm done."

"You think the assassins don't still need every soldier we can get?"

"I'm no soldier," Desmond protests. "And what kind of soldier would I be, anyway, with one arm?"

"Don't give me that self-pity," William says. He still sounds frustratingly calm while Desmond is getting angrier by the moment. He reaches for a roll of bandages, but Desmond jerks away from him. The last thing he wants right now is his father touching him.

"Why do you get to tell me about self-pity?" he demands. "The doctors said they had other things to try, skin grafts and surgery and whatever- but you were just in such a damn hurry to leave that you had to go and tell them to just cut it off!"

"The templars were closing in."

"I want my arm back!" Desmond shouts, loudly enough for the words to echo against the walls, loudly enough that he imagines his ancestors can hear it back home in their own centuries.

And then for a moment, there is silence.

"Feel better?" William asks eventually.

Desmond looks away from him and nods. "A little."

"Then let me rewrap your arm."

"Let me do it myself." He turns back to William in time to see his father toss him the fresh roll of bandages- Desmond almost fumbles but manages a clumsy, one handed catch. He expects William to leave after that, but he makes no move to do so. Desmond ignores him and gets on with his arm wrapping.

It's slow going, but he's about halfway done when William says, "I'm sorry."

"You- you're sorry? Really?"

"Is that so hard to believe?"

"Yes."

William snorts, but does not argue. "I'm sorry for dragging you into this, I'm sorry you lost your arm, and I'm especially sorry for everything I couldn't give you as a child." Desmond can't think of anything to say, but he apparently doesn't need to. William just keeps talking. "You were the saddest boy I ever knew," he says. "The only times I ever saw you happy were when you played with your imaginary friends."

"Imaginary friends?" He laughs. "I never had imaginary friends, did I?"

"Only sometimes." William actually smiles at the memory. "Your mother was so concerned," he says. "Because they would just come and go out of nowhere- you wouldn't mention them for months, and then suddenly they'd be back."

"I don't remember any of that," Desmond says.

"I'm surprised," William says. "You were so insistent when you talked about them. And you argued whenever someone would call them imaginary- you would always say they weren't _imaginary_ , they were _visitors_ , and-"

"Wait, what?" Desmond jerks his head up, bandages dropping from suddenly frozen fingers.

"For God's sake, Desmond…" William grumbles.

"I used that word?" Desmond asks. "Specifically? I said visitors?"

"Yes. Why is that important?"

Because they had been there, and Desmond's mind races as he tries to figure out how that's possible, why he can't remember… but then, it was so long ago, and he's actively tried to block out most of his childhood. And then he wonders why the visits ever stopped. He could have used some friends, after he ran away but before Abstergo took him.

"Desmond?" William says softly. He sounds uncharacteristically gentle.

"I'm fine," Desmond answers. He's whispering as well. William studies him for a second, then reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet.

"Can I show you something?"

Desmond shrugs, and William pulls out a well-worn piece notebook paper that's folded into a side pocket. He tries not to look interested, but can't stop watching as William unfolds the paper, talking quietly the entire time.

"I think you must have been about seven," he says. "It was winter, and you were supposed to be in training."

Well, no surprise there. It felt like he'd always been training when he was a kid.

"But you wouldn't pay attention to anything that day, you were so excited. You said you'd been to someone's birthday, and there were lots of other kids to play with. I don't think I ever saw you so excited, jumping around and talking so much no one else could get a word in edgewise."

"Whose birthday?"

William shrugs. "I don't remember. One of your so called visitors. But eventually, I realized you weren't going to focus on anything, and sent you back to the house for the afternoon. When I came in, a couple hours later, I was ready to be angry with you. But you ran up, and hugged me, and gave me this."

William finally finishes unfolding the paper, and hands it over to Desmond. He stares at it, then looks back up at his father. "What-"

"You said, 'these are my friends,' and I didn't know how to argue with that. But I kept the drawing, because… well, because I didn't get to see you happy very often when you were young."

"I wasn't," Desmond murmurs. "Happy, I mean. Not very often."

He goes back to staring at the paper in his hands. Seven badly drawn stick people, with big crayon smiles, holding hands. Desmond still doesn't remember drawing this, but he believes now that he must have. The detail that sticks out immediately is the stick person on the far end, wearing what looks like a taco on its head and a superhero cape. Seven year old Desmond had written 'Hat Man' next to it, with a big arrow, six exclamation points, and a backwards n.

He smiles a little, and is still taking in the rest of the details when he becomes abruptly aware that his father is still watching him. "Can you make a copy of this for me?" he asks, holding the paper out reluctantly for William to reclaim.

"Keep it," William says. He reaches over and closes Desmond's fingers more securely around the childish drawing.

"You carried it around for- what, eighteen years, and now you're just giving it to me?"

"I carried it around for eighteen years because it reminded me of a time when you were happy," William says. "But getting it back made you smile again, so obviously you should keep it."

"Thank you," Desmond says. "Really." He and his dad don't usually talk like this. Desmond hadn't really known for sure if William even cared what Desmond was feeling. It makes him sort of warm to realize that he's been wrong all this time.

William nods, and bends down to retrieve the bandages that Desmond had dropped earlier. "Can I help you with this now?" he asks.

Desmond nods and sticks out his arm. And even though neither of them says anything while William finishes his work, somehow that's okay.


	7. Chapter 7

Shay's first hint that something is wrong is the way his head starts tingling, but then he's bent over and retching onto a ground that suddenly looks very different from the deck of the _Morrigan_ he'd been standing on moments ago. The abrupt change between being aboard a ship ( _his_ ship! His very own ship, as of two days ago, and even whatever's going on here isn't going to kill his excitement) to here is jarring. The drinking he and Liam had been doing to celebrate getting the _Morrigan_ probably wasn't helping, either, and so here he was, vomiting on the edge of the street.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Shay."

The voice is completely unfamiliar to him, male, older, and dignified. Some assassin Shay hasn't met yet, maybe. That would at least explain how this stranger knows his name. Shay makes a face and spits out the last of the vomit, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before straightening up and turning around to find out who's looking at him.

But the man has already turned himself and is hurrying toward an inn nearby. From behind, all Shay can see is a tricorner hat. "Come inside," the man calls. "It's bitterly cold out here."

Not knowing what else to do, and not even sure where _here_ is, exactly, Shay follows. His stomach has settled, at least, but now that the stranger has mentioned it, he does feel cold. The fact that he's in plainclothes instead of his heavier assassin's robes (they'd been soaked through earlier while sailing through rough waters) doesn't help.

The building turns out to be an inn, and the stranger leads him up to a room that looks like it has been lived in for months, at least. Shay looks around, then back at the stranger. "Alright," he said. "I suppose I should at least ask who you are, and how you know my name."

The stranger turns back to look at Shay, one eyebrow raised in surprise, and Shay has the uncomfortable feeling that he is being studied. "So this is the first time you've visited me?" he asks. "This must be early, for you."

"It's almost midnight," Shay says, confused. "And what do you mean, _visited_? I don't even know where I am."

"Ah." He looks almost sympathetic now. "So this is your first visit, period."

"Make sense, man!" Shay says, starting to feel very definitely exasperated. "What are you talking about?"

"Sit down and listen," the man says, and Shay finds himself being (rather forcibly) guided onto a nearby chair. He is about to protest, when the stranger pulls back and Shay realizes he's taken his knife with him. It's the only weapon Shay had been wearing before abruptly finding himself here, and its loss makes him very nervous.

"Hey!" he protests. "Give that back!"

"I will," the stranger says, tucking the blade neatly away somewhere within the folds of his cloak. "Once we're done talking."

Shay crosses his arms and scowls, which makes the man sigh. "I'd forgotten how juvenile you were before-" but he cuts himself off, changing the subject before Shay can ask _before what_. "I will attempt to make this explanation make more sense than the one I originally got," he says.

"I'd settle for any kind of explanation."

"Fair enough. My name is Haytham Kenway."

"You're a templar!" Shay says, jumping immediately to his feet. He knows the name, but has never had a face to put together with it before.

"I'm also far more experienced than you and holding your only weapon," Haytham says.

"You want to kill me."

"Absolutely not," Haytham says. "What a waste that would be."

"Waste..?"

"Believe it or not, Shay, I have my reasons for wanting you alive, so sit back down and listen." Grudgingly, and with far more suspicion now, Shay does as he's told.

"What do you mean by visit?" he asks again. "What does that mean?"

"It means you're with a visitor," Haytham says. "There are eight of us, living in different years, for the most part, and occasionally we have the debatable good fortune of meeting one another."

"This isn't a different time though," Shay objects. "It's still 1752."

"It's 1778."

"No…"

Haytham seems amused at Shay's flat disbelief, if the slight twitch around his mouth is anything to go by. "Yes. And some of us are much farther away than that, but I'll let you form your own opinions of them."

"But-"

"You'll get used to it," Haytham says. "I'll admit, I wasn't fond of it myself in the beginning. Far too many assassins."

"So you're the only templar?" Shay asks, relaxing a little. Assuming that any of this is true, it's a relief to learn that he's going to at least be on the same side as most of them.

This time, for absolutely no reason Shay can see, Haytham's smile is genuine. "No," he says. "There is one other, but I believe it will be a few years yet before you meet him."

"But-"

The second man appears out of absolutely nowhere, which seems to surprise neither the man himself nor Haytham, but which sends Shay falling to the floor from the abruptness of it all. The newcomer flops comfortably onto the bed as if he owns the place, and nods at the two of them. "Haytham," he says. "Shay." 

"Hello, Ezio," Haytham says tiredly.

"Am I interrupting top secret templar business of some kind?" Ezio (and Shay could swear he's heard that name before… wasn't there a famous assassin once called Ezio?) says.

"You're another visitor?" Shay asks, pulling himself back onto the chair.

"This is Shay's first visit," Haytham says pointedly.

"So?"

"So, he doesn't know about some things yet."

Ezio looks at him blankly. "What?"

"Some things that will happen in his future." Still nothing. "Possibly in Portugal."

"Oh!" Ezio nods. "Yes. That. So he doesn't know he's going to be a temp-"

"No, Ezio," Haytham says sharply. "He doesn't at the moment, but he might if you keep blurting things out." Ezio winces and mouths 'sorry' at him. Haytham looks back at Shay. "It's better not to know your own future," he says. "Generally. So I'm sorry your first visit has to be with two people that have already known you a while. Sometimes visits happen out of order."

"So both of us have known you for years now," Ezio finishes. "Sorry. Things will make a little more sense when you start meeting earlier visitors."

Shay nods weakly, feeling far too lost to do anything else at the moment. Because he can't imagine that any point in his life will be more confusing than this moment right now.

"Are you alright?" Ezio asks from the bed. He gets up, and before Shay can lie and say he feels fine, Ezio is abruptly hugging him.

Nope, apparently he was wrong. He's already more confused than he was thirty seconds ago, and suddenly he has a funny feeling that it's only going to get worse from here.


	8. Chapter 8

Ratonhnhaké:ton's mind is a blur of emotions when he leaves home for the first time. He doesn't know exactly where he is going or what he wants to do when he gets there, but he knows he has to leave. His vision of the eagle still echoes in his mind, making him feel stretched out of shape in his own skin. For a time he feels almost happy, maybe even hopeful.

He has not felt happy since the day his mother died. And he does not think he has ever felt _hope_.

But the eagle in his mind keeps trying to spread its wings and soar, lifting him up and leading him on, so that for a few, precious hours, Ratonhnhaké:ton believes he can do anything. He can save his people, his whole village, if he just tries hard enough.

His first sign that anything is wrong is the tingle in his head, and the second is the sense that someone is following him. Ratonhnhaké:ton turns around abruptly, and comes face to face with a white man reaching for him. He looks very vaguely familiar, as if he is someone Ratonhnhaké:ton had known once, a long time ago. But before Ratonhnhaké:ton can think where he's seen this man before, one of the man's hands has closed around Ratonhnhaké:ton's shoulder.

The grip is too tight, and Ratonhnhaké:ton leans as far away from him as possible, trying to get away. He does not like being held, it makes him uncomfortable and trapped, and today the eagle in his head wants to keep him moving toward that unknown place where he is going.

"What do you want?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks.

"Where are you going?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton shrugs uncomfortably, and points in the direction the eagle is taking him in. A large part of him wants to shake this man off and keep going, but Ratonhnhaké:ton recognizes that he is out of place in this world, away from his people. If he wants to succeed, he will need to get used to people like this. He reaches into his pack and pulls out the drawing he had made before leaving.

"I'm looking for this symbol," he says, holding up what looks to him like a curved triangle. "Do you know where I can find it?"

The man glances only briefly at the image in Ratonhnhaké:ton's hand, but his face shifts into a hard mask. "Connor," he says, and Ratonhnhaké:ton feels his face wrinkle up in confusion. He had tried his best to learn as much English as he could, but this is a word he does not know. The way the man says it, though, careful and almost tender, makes Ratonhnhaké:ton think it must be important. The man's voice drops. "I absolutely forbid this. I am your father, do you understand?"

The words hit Ratonhnhaké:ton's ears like the hiss of a snake, and finally he pulls away. "Goodbye," he says.

"Connor, wait!"

"I do not know what that means."

"Raton- Rhotten-"

"Ratonhnhaké:ton," he says, before he can stop himself. He stops, and turns back.

His… father, if the man can be believed, sighs and shakes his head. "I could say it once," he says. "But no more, it seems."

Ratonhnhaké:ton looks at him, trying to decide what to think. He remembers the day his mother died. The whole, horrible experience had been burned into his memory as the fire in the village roared and his life fell apart. "You…" he hesitates, not entirely certain what to say. No one has ever quite believed him about what he saw that day, and there are times when Ratonhnhaké:ton does not quite believe himself. "You looked different then. You are back? To- visit?"

"To tell you not to do this," his father says, and although his voice is forceful his expression is resigned.

"And what would you have me do instead?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asks. "This is what I need to do to save my people."

"Do you even know what _this_ is?" his father asks. "Or do you follow your ideals blindly?"

"I know that this will take me away from you," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. "I do not want visitors."

His father's voice follows him, exasperated, as he hurries away. "Connor-!"

But the cry is cut off abruptly, and when Ratonhnhaké:ton turns back to look, his father is gone.

Later, when he reaches the place where the eagle is guiding him toward, Ratonhnhaké:ton meets Achilles, and earns an invitation inside. It is then that the old man burdens him with the name Connor, and Ratonhnhaké:ton hears his father's voice like an echo in his mind, calling him by the name that had not even been his yet when they spoke. And he wonders if there is anywhere in the world where he can go, anything at all he can do, to escape his father's visits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely sure if Haytham is trying to stop Connor from joining the assassins just because he wants one less assassin in the world, or because he caaaaaaares and wants Connor with him. Maybe a little of both. :P


	9. Chapter 9

Aveline is dressing when the man appears out of nowhere, crowding the little space of her disguised changing booth. She is already in a foul mood from trying to singlehandedly wiggle her way into a lady's gown that was designed to only be put on with help, and this stranger's sudden appearance does not help. In an instant, she has pivoted toward him, drawing her hidden blade and pushing it against his neck.

"Who are you?" she demands. "How did you get in here?"

He makes a noise of horrified objection, and clamps his eyes tightly shut. "I am so, so sorry," he tells her. "I'm just visiting, I swear I didn't come here on purpose." He cracks one eye open, and Aveline notices the way his gaze goes immediately to her still half clothed chest (typical, for a man), before he quickly shuts it again (Less typical). "But, um… I promise not to look, if you want to finish what you're doing, and possibly take your blades off my neck. If it helps any, I'm an assassin too."

She hears the whisper of hidden blades flying out, and the click of the metal sliding into place. Reluctantly, she steps back and reaches again for her clothes. "Assassin or no," she says. "What are you doing here? And who are you, actually?"

"My name is Shay Cormac. And as I told you, I'm a visitor."

"I don't understand what you mean by that."

"You don't- oh. You haven't met any of the others yet."

And Aveline listens carefully as he tells her the most impossible story she's ever heard. "And this is all true?" she asks at the end. "Because if this is some kind of trick-"

"I understand if you don't believe me yet," he says. "But you'll start having visits soon yourself, probably, and maybe then it will be easier."

"I…" she turns to him, studying his face. It is calm, the eyes still tightly closed. Aveline is almost sure he hadn't even peeked the entire time, as many men would have. But his face is still red, and the tightness in his trousers tells her that he would love nothing more than to open his eyes. She finds it strangely intriguing that he hadn't, and she's not exactly sure what to say.

"You didn't tell me your name," he says, as the awkward silence grows longer.

"Aveline."

"I like that name."

She is beginning to like the shape of his face, and the way his long, shaggy hair falls perfectly around it. Maybe, she thinks, it would not be so bad if he would open his eyes. "Come help me with this," she says, nudging him a little. "It is difficult to tie up the back of a gown without help."

"I shouldn't look-"

"I'm nearly dressed. And I'm asking you."

His fingers against her back are clumsy, but also warm and solid, and about halfway through she hears him start to curse. "How do you manage this alone?" he asks.

"Slowly," Aveline laughs. He steps back, apparently finished, and Aveline turns around to face him. For a moment she weighs the pros and cons of continuing her flirtation. But if they are to visit like this often, it doesn't seem like such a good idea. "You said our visitors are from many different times," she says. "What year is it for you?"

"1751."

She laughs, delighted at the sheer impossibility of this man. "I was four years old then," she tells him. "It's 1765 now."

"Perhaps I will get the chance to work with you one day," he says.

"In a decade or two."

"I look forward to it." He smiles at her, and sticks out his hand. "I hope we can be friends, Aveline."

"There aren't many assassins in New Orleans," she tells him. "Or in general, really."

 "Oh?"

Aveline shrugs. "Some assassin up north turned traitor and joined the templars several years ago," she explains. "Thanks to him, there are few of us left."

Shay makes a face. "I'm not looking forward to finding out who that is," he says. "I hope it's not one of the men in the order I actually like."

Aveline pats him comfortingly on the back. "I'm sure it won't be," she says. "I think you don't think good men become traitors, do you know what I mean? You might not suspect that a man will turn traitor, but in retrospect you could look at them and say 'yes, this is exactly the kind of person that would betray us all', yes? They wouldn't be the kind of person with friends, I imagine."

"I suppose," Shay says, looking marginally more cheerful. "I can cross that bridge when I come to it."

Aveline nods, and gestures toward the door. "You said that no one besides me can see you, right?"

"That's how this visiting thing seems to work," Shay agrees.

"Then I won't have to explain you if you come with me," Aveline says cheerfully. "Let me show you my city."

And so they spend a very pleasant hour together, talking together as old friends would, about their targets and their missions, about the good and bad of being assassins. She is interested in hearing what his order is like, and he seems fascinated by the way she adopts different personas to reach her targets. When they finally part, with Shay returning abruptly to his own time, Aveline is surprised to find herself smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really like the idea of assassin Shay hearing references to templar Shay and being like WHAT KIND OF HORRIBLE MONSTER WOULD DO THAT, okay?


	10. Chapter 10

Edward was used to being wet. It was relatively unavoidable part of basically living on the ocean. He was also used to being in a confined ship full of men that- quite frankly- were not always as well clothed as they might have been. What he was not used to were visits in tiny little glass boxes where he was pressed right up against a very naked and weirdly relived looking Desmond while water poured in from a metal thing on the wall.

"Edward!" Desmond said. "Thank God, I've been waiting for this visit forever."

"You have?" Edward closed his eyes and then opened them again, in case he was seeing things wrong and this would somehow force it all to make sense. When this didn't work, he groaned a little.

"Are you okay?" Desmond asked. "I didn't expect you to be bothered by the whole naked thing."

"I'm not bothered by you being naked," Edward protested, because frankly he wasn't. "I'm bothered by you not being bothered!"

"What?"

"I mean, come on!" Edward threw up his hands, hitting the water spout and sending water straight into his own face. "You're Desmond! Someone takes their sock off and you start moaning about how they're too naked."

"I don't do that."

"Well okay, no, but I'm not exaggerating all that much. You're always complaining about how you keep visiting people while they're-" he makes a very expressive hand gesture. "And then you make that face- yes, that face, the one you're making now! And now here I am, visiting you while you're not wearing any clothes at all, and you look like you're excited. You should be way more uncomfortable with all this!"

"I mean, I probably would be," Desmond says. "Except I've been waiting ages for this."

"…you've been waiting to stand in a wet box thing with me while wearing no clothes?"

"Yes! I mean- no, not exactly, but come on, Edward, we sleep together all the time, how much weirder is this?" He gestured at the box around them. "And it's called a shower, for the record."

"We sleep together?" Edward demands. He realizes his voice sounds shriller than usual, but he's starting to feel a little unnerved. "Why are you okay with _that_? Who are you and what have you done with the real Desmond?"

"Okay, apparently this is out of order for you," Desmond mutters. He's starting to look slightly uncomfortable, which comes as an odd comfort to Edward. "Listen, a little over a month ago you started showing up in the middle of the night and falling asleep on me, and you said it was okay because you'd already seen me in the shower, so the sleeping thing wasn't as bad. And now that it's happened, I can stop being paranoid and waiting for it to happen, and just relax while I'm in the shower. So this-" he gestures to basically all of Edward without actually looking at the other man. "Is way more of you than I ever wanted to see. But I don't ever have to see it again, so that's a whole load off my shoulders. I mean, I seriously can't tell you what a relief it is."

"Oh." Edward thinks about this for a second, as the shower… showers down around him. Then he grins at Desmond. "So I told you for sure that I would only ever shower with you _once_ , did I?"

Desmond heaves a huge sigh, almost deflating as he apparently realizes he has no idea how many times this is going to happen, and therefore a whole lifetime full of terrifying showers in front of him. "Damn it," he says, in a voice of absolute resignation. "I'm going to put clothes on now."

Edward, satisfied that Desmond is uncomfortable and therefore that all is right with the world again, hums to himself as he follows his descendant out of the shower.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the mess I made of grammar in this chapter.

Shay stands at the grandmaster's front door, staring at it as he tries to make up his mind. It's a stupid thing to hesitate over, because he already knows that he has to do it. The thing is… he doesn't want to. There are very few things in this world he is truly afraid of, these days, but the visit that is about to happen is undoubtedly one of them.

"Shay?" He turns to see Haytham standing at his side, eating an apple and studying Shay like some kind of curiosity. "Did you want to be let in?"

It's snowing gently, big fat flakes that make it seem like the two of them are in their own separate world. Sounds around them are muffled, and if not for the sick feeling of dread curling up like a snake in Shay's stomach, it would have been peaceful. "I don't want to," he says. "But I… I need to be."

Haytham nods and moves past him to the door. There are flecks of blood on the hem of his cloak, a sure sign that he has been out on templar business. "I'm sorry," Shay says softly. "I don't mean to interrupt whatever you were doing-"

"I'm finished with that," Haytham says dismissively. "Come in and tell me what's wrong."

"You're about to get a visitor," Shay says. "And I need to be here for them."

"Aveline?" Haytham guesses, and Shay shakes his head. "No."

"Then who..?" But his question is interrupted by a thump from behind the door to Haytham's bedroom, and Shay takes a deep breath.

"Sorry," he says. "I'll explain later, but that's my cue."

Every step feels like a struggle, but eventually Shay forces himself into the room. The visitor lies on the floor where he's fallen, face and clothes an absolute mess. He's covered in dirt and dust, scratches and a few more serious injuries that still drip blood onto Haytham's spotless floor. Shay thinks he looks small, which is stupid because of course the visitor is the exact same size that he is.

But still. He looks thinner. Like he's lost weight along with everything else.

The visitor doesn't notice Shay come in. He stares straight ahead, without reacting to anything at all. He doesn't even flinch when Shay walks over and crouches in front of him.

"Shay," Shay says. "Look at me, Shay."

But there is no reaction, as Shay had known there wouldn't be. He remembers this visit, perhaps more clearly than any other, the details burned into his mind like they've been physically branded. It had been a long time ago, but it had also been just after Lisbon. When his whole world had been, literally, shaken. When his mind had done its best to rip itself apart in a storm of grief and guilt and the kind of hatred he had never felt before, or in fact since.

This is… maybe a month after. Time enough for Shay to have thought his way through every possible, horrifying consequence of what he had done. Time enough for the nightmares to start, time enough for the realization that he is a monster.

"It's over," says the younger Shay. The one that is still an assassin. His voice is dull, and he doesn't even look surprised at the sight of his older self. Nothing can penetrate the fog around his mind just now.

"It's not."

"What am I supposed to do now? I killed… so many innocents. Ruined so many lives."

Shay nods, because he knows exactly how his younger self is feeling right now. There are days when he still sort of feels the same way. "But… it's not over," he says. "It's not, I promise. You have to pick up the pieces and start over."

And now, suddenly, the younger Shay stirs himself a little, really looks at his older self. He takes in the templar cross on his clothes, and raises disbelieving eyes to look himself full in the face.

Shay has killed a lot of assassins in his time. Some of them were once his friends, and none of them were easy. But the death of _this_ assassin is the hardest Shay has ever had to experience. He watches the devastated understanding rise up in the eyes of his younger self, as he realizes what kind of a future is waiting for him.

This is the moment that Shay really knew that his time as an assassin is over. When that part of who he was died. And yes, there will still be hesitation after this, there will be conversations with his visitors (because who else could he trust, with a decision like this?), there will be denial and anger and a million useless protests before he finally gives in. But this was the moment he _knew_.

And this is when the younger Shay puts his hand over his face and sobs. Ugly sobs, uncontrollable, loud, messy. And Shay pulls himself in close, letting him cry, doing his best to offer comfort, because there is no one else in the world that understands what this feels like.

He looks up after a few minutes and there is Haytham, standing in the door and watching him. Both of him. He looks concerned, and raises his eyebrows as if asking Shay if he needs help. Shay shakes his head, and Haytham nods sharply before turning to leave. But Shay feels better in knowing that Haytham had offered, and that he's still there, out of sight but still close, just in case Shay needs him.

It gives him the courage to hold the other Shay tighter, to promise him that someday, everything will be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for this scene came from this (http://sunsetagain.tumblr.com/post/115628892545/it-hurt-me-a-lot-every-time-i-imagined-what-shay) drawing.


	12. Chapter 12

In the end, Desmond is not entirely sure what makes him stab Lucy. He doesn't know if it's his own choice, or the choice of the apple. But he knows what it feels like to bury his blade in her stomach, and feel her last, startled breath against the side of his face. They are close enough to kiss, but no. They will never do that now, and Desmond will never even know if anything she told him was real.

His blade is still twisted deep in her gut when Desmond abruptly goes for a visit. Without Lucy to hold him up, he crumples to the floor, arm still reaching out. Blood drips from the edge of his blade, and he starts to laugh. Because it's _funny_ , isn't it, Lucy's blood on the ground centuries before she will even be born. It's so funny he just can't stop laughing, a high cackle of noise that doesn't sound right coming from his own mouth. Except that's funny too, and he can't stop laughing.

"Desmond?"

He hears boots on the floor behind him and then, after a long pause, feels a hand on his shoulder. But he still can't stop laughing, his whole body shakes with the force of that laughing, trembling and shaking and oh God, Lucy is dead.

He hears words but he's not listening anymore, and then someone shouting his name, and then feels a hard slap across his face. Desmond jerks away from the pain and hears the laughter stop abruptly. But the shaking doesn't stop, and Desmond doesn't even try.

"Here," the voice says, and Desmond finally recognizes Altair. He sounds older than he had in the animus, and when Desmond can finally focus his eyes, he sees that his ancestor looks maybe forty, forty five years old. Desmond mumbles something but he's not even trying to make real words, and Altair ignores him.

Instead, he crouches over Desmond's outstretched arm, gently unstrapping the hidden blade there. When it's off, he moves it out of sight, and Desmond feels the shaking slow a little. He pulls first one arm, then the other, into his chest, hugging himself as tight as he can.

"Who did you kill?" Altair asks calmly. And how dare he be so calm when Lucy is dead? The world is crumbling to pieces, how dare anyone be calm? When Desmond doesn't say anything, Altair nudges him in the side with the toe of his boot. Coming from anyone else it would have felt angry, but that's just how Altair is. " _Desmond_."

"Lucy, okay?" Desmond whispers. Even though it's not okay and maybe nothing will ever be okay again. "Lucy is d- she's dead, and it's my fault."

"Why did you kill her?" Altair asks.

"Dunno," he mumbles. "Apple…"

Altair shakes his head. "Then the apple killed her. It just used you."Desmond shakes his head, because how can Altair not see that it doesn't matter? He still stabbed Lucy, and she's still dead. "She was a templar," he says. Altair sighs and reaches down to haul Desmond into a sitting position against the wall. He opens his mouth, starts to say something, but stops as Desmond starts to fall to one side. It's just that he doesn't care anymore.

Altair grabs him by the shoulders, looks him straight in the eye. "No," he growls. "Stop it, Desmond, pull yourself together."

"Can't-"

"You _can_. You are better than this. You are the best of us, the strongest. Desmond, I have seen your future-" And even through the fog of guilt eating at his mind, Desmond notices the look on Altair's face, and half wonders what exactly he's going to do that could make Altair say something like that. "Take a deep breath. Calm down."

But that is the moment when the door opens and Maria Thorpe, of all people, walks through. For a second that makes no sense, and then Desmond remembers the dream he'd had back in the warehouse, of Altair and Maria on a tower in Acre. So this is- they are- Altair and Maria are together. They're happy, even though she is a templar. For half a horrifying second, Desmond can see all too clearly, the parallel between himself and Altair, between Lucy and Maria, and then the unfairness of it all makes him unable to see anything at all.

His mind shatters like broken glass, and for a long time he does not know where he is, or when, or who. He is screaming the whole time, accusations and curses and sometimes without any words at all, just the sound of fear and anger and regret. 

He is still visiting, he can't go home but he can't stay in one place either. He feels stone floor under him, then wood- something that feels like the deck of a ship. He hears voices of people he has not even met yet calling his name, sees faces he doesn't recognize looking at him in concern. And Altair and Ezio are there, yes, but so are other people, other visitors maybe, that he hasn't even met yet.

And then he is back in his own time, arm still reaching for Lucy, and her face is the last thing he sees before his mind finally crumbles under the weight of his own growing insanity, and finally, mercifully, everything goes black.


	13. Chapter 13

Altair is not sure Desmond knows how often he visits in his sleep. But there he is, almost every night, asleep on the floor next to Altair's bed. Altair usually hears him arrive sometime around midnight, but as Desmond never wakes, Altair never says or does anything. In the morning, Altair steps over him to start his day, and sometime in the next hour or so Desmond goes back to his own time, none the wiser.

This continues for weeks, until the night that Altair does not sleep at all. Two hours ago, he had watched Desmond give up his life in exchange for the rest of the world. It is not something Altair would have done, which… shames him. He is an assassin, a fighter, and he would have tried to challenge Juno. The world would have burned while he let his pride speak for him.

But not Desmond. And Altair thinks he must have had his doubts, in those last moments, his fears- but he had done what was necessary anyway, sacrificing everything to do what was right.

Altair does not mean to stay up waiting for Desmond that night, doesn't even realize that's what he's doing until he feels the little itch of a visitor in the back of his head, and hears Desmond thump softly against the ground. Altair lets out a relieved sigh, and slips out of bed to crouch over his descendant. With Desmond dead, Altair had been afraid he wouldn't be able to come anymore (but it's not like that makes much sense, when he himself will die centuries before the others are born. Visitation seems to have little respect for the grave). But here he is, the same as ever, an expression of restless unease stamped onto his face.

Altair smiles at him, easing into a cross legged position on the floor near Desmond. He is not really a fan of words, but Desmond has always seemed to like them. They come bursting out of him at the oddest times, like a flock of birds taking flight, uncontrollable but remarkably _Desmond_. And he talks more when he's nervous, or uncertain. He had been uncertain often, it always seemed, and Altair wonders if that unease comes from Desmond's conviction that none of the rest of them are real. That must be a lonely thing to believe.

"I'm not really sure what to say," Altair begins. He keeps his voice quiet, because he doesn't want to wake Desmond. There are things he needs to say, but if Desmond hears them, he will know. This is before Desmond dies, from the other man's point of view, and what kind of man would go into their own death, knowing in advance what it will be?

Altair goes on. "I wanted to say something. You always seemed to like talking. I only regret that we never spoke more while we still had a chance." He smiles. Well. I suppose that's still possible, if I visit a younger version of you. But tonight... I wanted to tell you that I'm proud of you." He nods, certain about this one thing, at least. "Proud, yes. And I've seen your father, I don't think he's told you that often. But you deserve to hear it often, I think. You're a good person, Desmond. Strong. I am _proud_ to be your ancestor."

 He reaches forward, feeling awkward and foolish as he brushes Desmond's hair out of his eyes. Desmond stirs a little under his touch, eyes opening a tiny crack. "Why're you proud…?" he mumbles, sleepily pushing his face further into Altair's hand. Yesterday, Altair would have pulled away, but today he lets Desmond take what comfort he can. When he doesn't answer at once, Desmond asks again, "Why…?"

"Just because," Altair says softly. Desmond smiles and curls into himself, arms wrapped around his chest like a hug. He drops back off to sleep quickly, the very picture of exhaustion after what Altair assumes has been a long day in the animus.

Altair stands, and pulls a blanket off the bed to wrap around the younger man. It's not much, but maybe it will help a little.

Desmond sleeps peacefully until morning, when he vanishes back to his own time and leaves the blanket behind. Altair picks it up quietly, folds it, and replaces it neatly in its proper place. But the next night before going to sleep, Altair pulls it out again and spreads it on the floor so it will be ready for Desmond when he arrives. And every night after that, Altair leaves Desmond's blanket out for him.

Over time, Desmond comes less and less often. Altair is not surprised, but he is disappointed. Still, the nighttime visits never stop completely, even many decades on. And Altair leaves Desmond's blanket out every night anyway, just in case.

He never tells anyone what it's for. Not even when other visitors occasionally drop by in the middle of the night and take advantage of what's there (although he does get _extraordinarily_ angry at Shay and Aveline the one time they try to have sex there. That is _Desmond's_ blanket, and Altair knows how upset he gets when he drops in on that sort of thing. Altair just wants to make sure he has one safe place in the world).

But honestly, Altair doesn't really mind when he wakes to find Edward snoring next to his bed, or Ezio sprawled out in a mess of limbs and tangled up blanket, or Connor frowning to himself, Haytham stiff and not quite trusting himself to sleep in Masyaf itself. The blanket is there, after all, and it's not their fault that Altair doesn't tell them who, exactly, it is there _for._ And years later, when he marries and has children, sometimes he will wake up with his sons curled up together on Desmond's blanket, too. Sometimes, they come on the same nights when Desmond is visiting, and then Altair wakes to the sight of his sons and his descendant inches away on the blanket, all blissfully unaware that any of the others are there.

Maria thinks he's crazy, but doesn't argue with him. The blanket stays on the ground by the bed, and even when Altair travels, it comes with him. He lays it out next to him when he camps, and on _those_ nights, he sometimes wakes to find Desmond pressed up against his back, instinctively seeking comfort from a man he can't even admit is real when he's awake.

And Altair doesn't just see Desmond after the time he was first forced into the animus. After a while, he starts to see younger versions of Desmond. Desmond the child and Desmond the teen, always fast asleep and utterly unaware of what visitation even means. Sometimes, Altair considers waking him up and just telling him everything. But he always reconsiders, because Desmond hadn't known anything about the visitors when they first met. Clearly Altair can't tell him ahead of time, or that would change both their futures. It's frustrating, but not the hardest thing Altair goes through during Desmond's nocturnal visits.

A lot of Desmond's visits seem to come at the times he is at his lowest, when he most needs someone at his side. When a child Desmond drips blood onto the blanket from cuts and scrapes he should be too young to have, when the teenaged Desmond curls up as tight as he can and cries in his sleep, when Desmond- at any age- cries out at his dreams, calling for people that cannot come to help him. The nights when Desmond is a mess, when he smells of stale alcohol and sweat from his work at the bar, when he looks like he's passed out rather than fallen asleep. When his lonlieness and misery float around him like a hazy cloud, and Altair sometimes climbs out of bed and joins him on the floor, whispering reassurances into his s ear. Telling Desmond that he is  _wanted_ and  _important_ and  _loved_. Things everyone should know, but Desmond seems not to. There are quite a lot of bad nights, and very few good ones.

And then, one night, Altair is woken by the shrill screams of an infant. He almost rolls out of bed, eyes going instinctively to Desmond's blanket. And there he is.

At this point, Darim is six years old and Sef is four. Altair has watched them both grow up, and he knows what a newborn looks like. He knows how small they are, how they sound and how they smell. He sees Desmond lying there, and he knows that this must be his descendant's first night on this world.

Maria is fast asleep, and can't hear Desmond crying anyway. Altair doesn't worry about waking her as he sits quietly in front of his- their- descendant, in just the same place as he had on that first night after Desmond's death. But this is different. It is the first night of Desmond's _life_.

The newborn is wrapped up in some ridiculous, twentieth century fabric that Altair does not like. He untangles it from Desmond's pudgy limbs, and rewraps the boy in the blanket that has already been his for years. When he is done, he pulls the baby close and rocks him as he had his own sons until Desmond finally goes quiet.

"It's okay," Altair promises, in a voice so quiet it is barely even a whisper. "I know, things seem scary right now. The world is very big, and you are very small. But someday, Desmond, you will be big enough to _save_ that world, and everyone in it." He takes a deep breath, pausing to smile as Desmond coos in his arms. He has rarely heard Desmond sound so at peace. "And yes," Altair continues. "Your life will be hard. I'm sorry for that, and I wish I could do more to help. But I promise that you will be safe here, always. He brushes his thumb across the soft fuzz of hair on top of Desmond's head, smiling down at the boy. "I have never understood how we seem to find each other at the best possible moments, when we need each other the most. But if you can, if some part of you knows how to find your way back here when you need me, I promise I will always have a safe place waiting for you."

Altair does not let go of Desmond for the entire night, rocking him until dawn. And then, when the sun starts to come up and Altair knows that Desmond's visit must be just about to end, Altair kisses him gently on the forehead and whispers, "Always know, Desmond, that I am proud of you."


	14. Chapter 14

"Desmond." He feels a finger tapping against his forehead. "Deeeeeesmond…"

"What?" He swats the finger away and blinks his eyes open. "Oh. Clay."

"Your mind is trapped in an animus, trying to tear itself into little messed up pieces," Clay said, with accompanying gestures. "Who else did you expect to see?"

Ezio, maybe, or Altair. Desmond knows he can't exactly leave the animus right now, not since killing-

Not-

…

Not since Lucy.

But it's lonely with no one around except Clay, who is crazier than Desmond. And he knows it would be kind of counterproductive to start hallucinating again but he- he wants to talk to someone. Anyone. Anyone but Clay, because Clay hates Lucy and had ranted about how she was supposed to rescue him for over an hour, the one time Desmond made the mistake of bringing her up.

"I didn't expect anyone," Desmond says wearily, and stands up, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You're a different kind of crazy, aren't you?" Clay says cheerfully. "What's your deal?"

"I don't have a deal."

"You definitely have a problem."

"That would be why I'm stuck here, yes," Desmond agrees. But then he relents and tries to smile, because if anything, Clay seems even lonelier than Desmond. How long has he been stuck in the programming of the animus? He's about to start up a conversation when he sees-

"Ezio!" and he's beaming like a child as he dashes across the unreal ground of animus island, almost running into his ancestor. He wrapped his arms around Ezio, closing his eyes and breathing in the smell of him. Nothing smells like anything in the animus, but Ezio smells of some spice Desmond can't place, of sweat from running, of… well, he smells of Ezio. For once, he feels like he doesn't mind going crazy. Just as long as he's not alone.

"Desmond," Ezio says fondly. He is as old as the Ezio whose life Desmond is reliving in the animus, older than visiting-Ezio usually is. For a minute he lets Desmond just hug him like a fool, then pushes him away a little and studies him. "You look well," he says. "Considering."

"Well, this isn't my real body," Desmond says. "That's stuck in an animus, I don't know how good it's looking these days." He gestures around at the island. "This isn't actually real. Oh!" He points at Clay. "And this is Clay. He was the subject at Abstergo before me, and he's…" he tries to think of a way to explain Clay's state of sort-of-dead, but decides at the last second that Ezio doesn't really need to know, and it would only hurt Clay.

Clay, who's standing there, staring at Ezio with a face that is not his own. Desmond has spent enough time with him by now to recognize that Clay is bleeding, badly, but with as many ancestors as the other man has, that could mean anything. And then Desmond remembers, something Clay had told him not long after they first met. "He's one of your descendants too."

"Really?"

Desmond nods.

Ezio studies Clay, who just keeps looking at him. "Can he see me?" he asks Desmond, and sure enough, it really looks like Clay is staring at Ezio. And why not? He's a computer program, maybe AI can see other peoples' hallucinations.

And then Clay speaks, and his voice is high and shaky, a child's voice, and Desmond feels something twist painfully in his chest to hear it. Because yes, he's got hallucinations to deal with, but this isn't even the first time since Desmond got here that Clay has mixed up himself and his ancestor. "Papa," Clay says, and he takes a hesitant half step toward Ezio.

Ezio looks helplessly at Desmond. "He thinks he is his ancestor," Desmond says quietly. "His ancestor was one of your illegitimate kids, from what he told me. I think… I think he just wants to meet you."

" _Papa_ ," Clay says again, and the word sounds almost like a prayer. He doesn't try to get closer, just stands there with his eyes fixed on Ezio and his fingers twisting anxiously together. Ezio only hesitates a second, but then he's striding forward, hugging Clay (or Clay's ancestor), and Clay is crying like the child he thinks he is, babbling in borrowed Italian.

Ezio says very little, just listening while Clay pours out all his ancestor's hurts and fears, dripping tears and snot onto Ezio's chest that Ezio doesn't even seem to notice. And then finally Clay wipes his face on the back of his hand, settling a little. "Mama, sh- she said you didn't want me but you _do_ want me, you _do_ , right? You came to see me?" He looks up hopefully at Ezio, who nods wordlessly. As if there's anything else he could have done in that moment.

Clay hugs him again, and Desmond thinks he sees a smile as Clay buries his face in Ezio again.

Later, when Clay is gone- gone where, Desmond has no idea, he just vanishes sometimes- Desmond sits down next to Ezio on the ground. "He doesn't know what he's doing," he says, not sure if he's apologizing for Clay or trying to explain. "And that wasn't really him saying that."

"But it was his ancestor," Ezio says. "So I have a son running around somewhere that's as miserable as all that. And I have no way of finding him, or making things better."

"You helped Clay," Desmond says after a while.

"I'm not sure that's enough," Ezio admits.

"You're a good ancestor," Desmond says. He doesn't know why he's trying so hard to make his hallucination feel better, but Ezio looks so sad. "And I'm sure you are… or will be, I don't know… I'm sure you're a good parent. You do what you can, you know?"

"Thanks, Desmond," Ezio says. He hesitates, then says, "Help Clay out if you can, alright? His ancestor and yours were siblings. Except I never even knew _his_ ancestor existed."

"I promise," Desmond says. Before, he'd wanted Ezio here to talk, about Lucy, about everything that had gone wrong there. But suddenly that doesn't seem so important. He has never really felt lucky to have his ancestors with him, taking care of him, even if they are just his imagination. For a moment, now, he is grateful. "Thanks," he whispers to Ezio. "For being here." And Ezio squeezes his shoulder briefly before disappearing.

But later, when Desmond is about to leave the animus and Clay begs to hitch a ride in his head, Desmond can't bring himself to say yes. He can't say yes, but he remembers his promise. When they finally have a few nights of down time, Desmond goes through the animus files and pulls every trace of Clay he can find onto a flash drive.

And even later than that, when Desmond is down an arm and Juno is running amok through the internet, Desmond remembers the jump drive. After all, if Juno can get online, why not Clay? He jams the jump drive into the computer, and waits as Clay's consciousness transfers from the drive to the internet. It's not a body of his own, but it's also not the complete solitude of the animus.

 _"Arrivederci, fratello,"_ he whispers. _"Buona fortuna."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone punch me if the next chapter in this isn't happy. This was supposed to be happy, but Clay got all teary on me.
> 
> According to google, "Arrivederci, fratello. Buona fortuna" Means "Goodbye, brother. Good luck."


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a part two of the last chapter. And hey, less sad this time!

Desmond gets the email a week and a half after Shaun gets tired of hearing Desmond constantly ask him to play _Liberation_ , and hides the game on him. Desmond is still busy pouting about losing Aveline (again) when said email arrives.

Which is weird, because it's not from his Shaun, and it's not from Rebecca, and it's not from his father, and everyone else that might want to talk to Desmond is dead. It's probably spam. Except Rebecca keeps telling him these accounts are some of the most secure in the world, and spam email shouldn't be able to get through to them.

But here it is, a message with no sender and no subject, sitting in Desmond's inbox. He clicks on it and a whole wall of text pops up at once. Desmond does a double take, because- well, he hadn't been expecting quite that much. He frowns, but then as soon as he gets to the greeting, he smiles.

_Ciao, fratello-_

It's from Clay. Like, stuck-on-the-internet-because-his-body-is-dead Clay. Desmond hadn't exactly been sure that transferring his data from the animus to the internet would work, but apparently it had. Somehow, the idea that Clay would be able to or even want to get in touch with him hadn't even crossed Desmond's mind. He keeps smiling while he reads on.

_It took me a while to figure out what you did, but thanks. It's not exactly a body of my own, but do you know how huge the internet is? It's a lot better than being stuck in an animus. More cat videos._

_I'm kidding, though. I hate cat videos. And look, I have a present for you. I think you'll appreciate it, although… I'm not actually sure if I have everything figured out right. See, everyone forgets that I had to see Ezio's life too. The early parts, anyway, but it's enough. I didn't really figure it out until later (I blame the bleeding effect), but Ezio always talked to people that weren't there. Maybe you'll recognize the names? Altair, Connor, Haytham, Shay, Aveline, Edward… Desmond? :P_

_So what were you guys doing? Some kind of weird time travel? An update to the animus? I know Ezio was there when we were in the animus together, I remember that much. He clearly knew who you were, which isn't how the animus works in my experience._

_I'm really… god, Desmond, I'm jealous. The bleeding effect is a little easier to manage away from the animus, but the emotions are always the hardest to shake. You probably noticed that yourself, actually. I don't want to have all these Ezio-daddy-issues, but there they are. I wish I could talk to him like you do._

_Shit. How did I get onto that subject? I was going to tell you about your present. See, I've been trawling around through Abstergo's computer systems, and found some stuff you might be interested in. I mean, maybe you don't care, if you can see all these people yourself, but… I mean, I'm on the internet, it was either this stuff or cat videos, and we've been over my opinion on cat videos already._

_So here we go. I figure you already have animus footage from Ezio and Altair. I have no idea who Connor or Haytham are. But Shay, Aveline, and Edward are all people that Abstergo is interested in, and there's a ton of old animus footage just sitting around and collecting dust on their servers. I figured I'd send some of it to you. Just my way of saying thanks for getting me out of that animus._

_Write me back, if you want. I wouldn't mind having someone to talk to. And I kind of want to know how your whole time travel thing works. I think I figured out how to check emails- it's just a little weird when I'm inside a computer instead of using one. I'm getting the hang of it, though. Figuring out how to live again. And I have you to thank for that, so… thanks, Desmond._

_-Clay_

Under this is a link, and when Desmond follows it he gets to a file storage site with three folders labelled SHAY, AVELINE, and EDWARD. And inside each folder is hour upon hour of animus footage. It's not exactly what he wants, but it's way better than a heavily edited, Abstergo produced game, for example.

He lets himself watch for a while, smiling more than he has in ages. And then Desmond forces himself to stop, and write back to Clay.

 _Ciao, fratello,_ he starts. _Good to hear from you, man. I'm glad you're surviving in the internet. And thanks for the animus files, too, thanks so much. You sort of got it right, when you guessed there was some kind of time travel, but let me tell you the full story._

And he tells Clay everything. It feels good to have someone he can talk to, someone like… a friend.


	16. Chapter 16

Desmond comes to visit Connor while his ancestor is sick with a fever, shaking and pale on a bed in some Boston inn. He'd been too sick to even make it home. Desmond sits in a chair nearby while Connor moans softly, wishing he knew what kind of comfort to offer. But he isn't much good with sickness. When he was living on his own in New York, Desmond usually hadn't been able to afford a doctor. He just did what Connor was doing now, whimpering in bed alone and waiting for the worst to be over.

But then the door opens, and Connor isn't alone anymore. Haytham comes in, and takes in the scene in front of him in an instant. He barely spares a glance at Desmond, but can't take his eyes off Connor.

Desmond tries to pretend that doesn't hurt. Today of all days, after everything else he's been through this morning, back in his own time. After all, Connor's the sick one. And _he_ is Haytham's son. Not Desmond. But the bleeding effect is bad today, worse than usual, and Desmond can't push back the feeling of _father_ in his mind the way he usually can when it flares up unexpectedly. There are good days and bad days, with this particular facet of the bleeding effect, and this looks like it's going to be the worst day of all.

"Leave," Connor says, with far less force than usual. His face is twisted up in pain he can never admit to, and he can't stop shivering even with three blankets piled on top of him.

"Absolutely not," Haytham says. He sits down in one of the room's two chairs, the one Desmond isn't using, and pulls it up close to the bed. "I heard from my contacts that there was an assassin ill in the city, and of course I immediately thought of you."

"Go away."

"Lee argued in favor of killing you while you're ill, you know. And after what you said to me in Washington's camp, part of me wanted to agree."

"Just _go_ -"

"But you are still my son, and this is a sorry death for anyone." He waits politely while Connor starts to cough, an old man's rattling wheeze that makes Haytham frown in obvious concern. "Besides. I believe I owe you for the help you gave hunting Church."

"Did that for me," Connor mumbles when the coughing dies down. "Not you."

"I brought medicine," Haytham says. "I expect you to drink it."

"No."

"Don't be a damn fool," Haytham snaps. "You'll kill yourself from sheer stubbornness before you take help from me?"

Connor turns over in bed so that his back is to his father. And Haytham gives Connor a look that makes the breath catch suddenly in Desmond's throat. Because here is a man that _wants,_ in his own way,to be a father, a man that Desmond… sometimes wishes could be _his_ father. Stupid, fucking, bleeding effect. And Connor has all that available to him, but he just keeps turning it down, over and over again.

And it isn't like Connor doesn't want Haytham in his life. Desmond wouldn't keep thinking _dad_ when he looks at Haytham, he wouldn't feel that ache in his chest, wouldn't want Haytham to _pay attention to him_ \- he wouldn't feel that if Connor didn't. That's how the bleeding effect works.

"You need to drink this," Haytham says softly. "It's medicine. It'll help."

"No…"

Haytham pulls a vial from a pouch on his waist and presses it into Connor's hand- his son twitches and pulls away quickly enough to almost send the vial rolling to the ground. Desmond jumps up from his chair and grabs it before it can shatter. It looks awful, and he isn't particularly confident about the quality of medicine in this century. But if Haytham thinks it will help, Desmond can't keep himself from believing it too.

"Thank you," Haytham grunts, and he reaches for the medicine without looking at Desmond.

Desmond opens his mouth, heart hammering in his chest. "Let me do it," he says.

"I doubt he'll accept medicine from you if he still knows it originally came from me," Haytham says dismissively. He's still looking at Connor, not Desmond.

"That's not what I meant," Desmond says quickly. "I'm visiting. I can take his body and drink the medicine for him."

"Desmond," Connor protests from the bed, but Haytham finally turns around to look Desmond full in the face, so it's worth making Connor a little upset.

"That's a good idea," Haytham says, and Desmond has to fight to keep the eager smile off his face (because this is supposed to be _serious_ ). "Please. Be my guest."

The second Desmond is in Connor's skin, he hears his ancestors start arguing, and- and it isn't _fair_ , because Haytham is still paying more attention to Connor…

The moan that comes out of Desmond at this point has nothing to do with the aches and pains suddenly wracking his (Connor's) body, or the chill that makes him shake all over, or the throbbing in his head that made it hard to focus. Or maybe it really is because of all that, but there's still more to it, jealousy and loneliness and feelings so big he can't name them.

But it works, because the moan seems to remind the others in the room that he's still there, and the argument suddenly stops. And then… Haytham… father… is looking at him, really looking, with concern in his eyes, and Desmond reaches weakly for his hand.

Father takes it. Squeezes a little, and Desmond feels his fevered brain nearly melt into a puddle of happiness. This is all he wants. A dad, to take care of him, to look after him, to look at him like… like that. The way a father is supposed to look at a son. And maybe father would never look at Desmond like that if he weren't in Connor's body. Maybe he wouldn't even look at _Connor_ like this if Connor didn't seem like he might be on death's door. But Desmond is good at pretending.

"Desmond," father says quietly. "The medicine."

He nods, wincing at the way it makes his head hurt. But father helps him to sit up, supporting him long enough to drink. And then-

And then suddenly the visit is over, and Desmond is back in the temple, alone and on his way back into the animus. His head feels clearer now that he is out of Connor's fever addled brain, but Desmond doesn't welcome the change. For just a few seconds, he had been able to look at Haytham, and think _father_ , and believe it.

He doesn't want to get in the animus. Not now, when he feels so empty. He doesn't want Connor's memories filling him up. Desmond just wants Haytham, and _God_ , doesn't he feel pathetic for admitting that to himself?

"Desmond." And that's his other (real) father calling his name, giving him a little push toward the animus. That thing, the hungry monster that's waiting to steal every piece of Desmond that's still him.

Desmond makes a little whimpering noise, and brings his hand up to cover his mouth and the pathetic sobs leaking from him. "Don't make me," he begs. "Please, don't make me. Not right now, not today-"

But William isn't listening as he pushes Desmond again, down and into the animus. He isn't listening as Desmond begs and pleads until there is no breath left in his body. All he wants is a moment's peace, just a few minutes more before he has to go back to _that memory_ , the one he's been trying and failing to synch for the whole morning already. "Please," he says. "Please don't make me, please, _please_ -"

It doesn't work. Because William isn't listening. He never listens.

The last thing he sees before the animus loads its simulation around him is William's face. And there is pity on it, yes, and sadness, and maybe even regret. But William does not look at Desmond the way Haytham had looked at Connor in that inn, and Desmond screams out with the last of what remains of _him_ , before the animus claims him, and the words are broken by pain and sobs but they are as much as he could manage.

_"Please don't make me kill my father!"_

Then Fort George is loading around him for what felt like the ten millionth time, and Desmond is back in Connor's body (only this time he doesn't _want_ to be), and his blades are pressed to father's neck.

Connor's face is impassive as Desmond screams.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From Haytham's perspective, this scene comes immediately after http://archiveofourown.org/works/4608768/chapters/10796681

The whole opera house had been a disaster from the start, and Haytham is in a foul temper as he turns away from Miko's fresh corpse. It should have been such a simple mission. If not for the… interruption, in the middle. The visit with the madman called Desmond, who claimed to be his descendant and to live in the future, had thrown him off completely.

But at least he has the artifact now, and if he leaves without being seen, this night can still be salvaged. Haytham turns to leave the box, but he has not gone more than a few yards when he feels something tugging against him, and hears something that sounds like a squeak. It's so unexpected that Haytham turns back, and sees at last the little boy that must have been hiding in a corner of the box the entire time. He is curled up with his face pressed into what looks like a pile of fabric, and when Haytham tries to move the boy is dragged along behind him like an anchor.

If they had not been tied together the way they are, Haytham would have left him without a second thought. But he can't expect to make a quiet escape dragging a child behind him on an invisible leash, so Haytham turns back. The child shivers as Haytham comes close, beginning to whimper. But he says nothing until Haytham pulls the fabric away from his face to get a better look at his face.

"No!" he protests, diving after whatever it is, throwing himself into Haytham's arms after the cloth. "Mine, mine!" He's shouting loudly enough that Haytham can't believe no one comes to find out what's wrong. With no other idea of how to quiet the child, Haytham shoves the cloth back into his arms, and then takes advantage of the momentary silence to sit the child down in front of him.

"Listen," he says firmly, and then he pauses. "What's your name?"

No response. The boy stares at his fabric and sniffs like he wants to start crying. Not good. Haytham looks at the boy and then back down at the cloth. On closer inspection, he can see that the fabric has been crudely sewn into the shape of some kind of animal and then stuffed with something soft. The boy hugs it hard, and Haytham tries another approach.

"What kind of animal is that?"

The boy looks up, hesitates, and then holds it up for Haytham to see. "He's a lion," he says in a voice that is barely audible. "Rar."

"I don't think lions sound like that," Haytham says. He doesn't think lions _look_ like that either. Whoever made the thing clearly has no great talent for sewing. He's trying to think what his father might have said to him when he was young and scared, but that had been a long time ago. And anyway, he can't remember ever being afraid until after his father died. But he tries anyway, because he wants to leave. "I think lions are louder."

"Rar," the boy tries again. When Haytham doesn't stop him, he says it again, louder, holding the lion out in front of him. "Rar!"

"Good," Haytham says, and the boy looks surprised for a minute before actually smiling. He throws back his head and roars as loudly as a child can, and Haytham feels his heart almost stop. Surely, someone will come now, they will hear the noise, and come to investigate, and then the body will be discovered and this will all get rather messy.

But nobody comes.

When Haytham is sure they are still safe, he speaks again. "I think that sounds like a very brave lion you have there."

"Me too," the boy agrees. He isn't hunched up anymore, but sitting cross legged with the lion in his lap in front of him like a shield. His face is open now, studying Haytham in frank curiosity. And Haytham recognizes him, could not fail to do so after the _visit_ he'd unwillingly paid.

"Desmond," he says.

"Hi," Desmond says. He waves one of the lion's paws up at Haytham, smiling bashfully. Haytham smiles back, uncertain. How can Desmond be here? Young and… and here? …visiting? That would at least explain why no one else has heard him.

"How old are you, Desmond?"

"Three." He holds the lion up in front of his face when he talks, like he's trying to let the toy do the speaking for him.

The man Haytham had met in the future had been at least twenty, this is _insane_ …

But he still needs to get out of this theatre, and that won't happen without Desmond. Besides. Besides…

The suspicion has dropped from Desmond's face, and he's looking up at Haytham almost expectantly. Eagerly, even, with the kind of high expectations children have of adults before they realize how unfair the world is. Haytham would have to have no heart at all to not care for the child at least a little bit. He doesn't look like a madman just now, just a lost little boy, clinging to the only familiar thing he has in the world.

"We need to leave," Haytham says, and Desmond's eyes stray back to the body a few feet away. He hides his face again behind the lion.

"Because you did a bad thing?" he asks.

"Not to you," Haytham tells him, because he will not sit here and explain the why of what he's done. "You are safe as long as you're with me." He stands and holds out a hand for Desmond to take, but the boy surprises him by looking up and holding both arms skyward to be held.

Desmond is warm and alive when Haytham gathers him up in his arms, a complete contrast to the rapidly cooling body Haytham has left behind. For a second, he stands still and holds Desmond as tightly as the boy holds his lion. Then he moves on.

"What's your name?" Desmond whispers in his ear.

"Haytham," Haytham says softly. He keeps walking, but has not gone very far when Desmond tugs at his coat.

"Haytham," he hisses. "Go faster!"

He half turns and sees the panic beginning, the screams of people discovering Miko's body. Haytham tightens his grip on Desmond and speeds up. They had lingered too long in the box upstairs, and it now it will be harder to leave unseen. Still, they are very close to the door when Desmond shrieks and almost leaps from Haytham's shoulder. "No!" he shouts.

Haytham glances back and sure enough, there is the lion looking sad and limp on the ground where Desmond had dropped it. And it would be stupid to go back, especially when Desmond is only visiting and the lion is probably not even really there. It would be the very stupidest reason to be caught and possibly hanged for murder.

"Please," Desmond whimpers. "Haytham, please!"

He must be the stupidest man in London. Haytham stops and darts backward, dropping to the ground just long enough to pull the lion from the ground and give it back to Desmond. "Don't drop it this time," he says sternly, and Desmond clutches at the lion with a grip tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

He stands and hurries away, cursing himself for a fool until long after they are away from the theater and safe again. Haytham stops and puts Desmond on the ground in front of him. He intends to ask questions, to figure out this visiting nonsense before it springs any more surprises on him, but that is when Desmond simply vanishes.

And Haytham is left with no clearer idea about visiting than he'd had before, apart from the vague idea that maybe it will not be as bad as he'd thought.

-//-

Many years later, Haytham sees Desmond again. Not for the first time, of course. He has met all the visitors by now, has seen Desmond in every conceivable circumstance and has grown to admire him for his part in saving the world. But it is a very long time before Haytham sees the young Desmond with his lion again.

He looks a few months older now, and a lot sadder. Desmond sits next to Haytham without being asked, and puts the lion down between them. Then he takes a deep breath. "Here's how it is," he says, and Haytham smiles at how grown up Desmond is trying to be. Don't grow up too quickly, he thinks but does not say. There will be time enough for that later. "My dad says I'm too big for toys now," Desmond goes on. "He says I'm to start my training tomorrow, and assassins don't have toys."

"Your father is not a nice man," Haytham says flatly. Not that he's in any position to pass judgment.

"No," Desmond agrees softly. He strokes the lion absentmindedly with his forefinger. "He threw my lion away last week, but I dug him out of the trash. Dad says next time he'll _burn_ it." His voice gets higher as he tries not to cry. "I don't want him to burn it! Momma made it for me. And it's my only friend…"

"That's not true," Haytham says softly. "You have many friends, Desmond. You just haven't met them yet."

"I meant my only friend at home," Desmond says. "I know you're my friend. You were nice. And that's why…" he slides the lion a little way toward Haytham across the table. "You can take care of him, right?"

"I don't know," Haytham admits. He isn't sure if visitors can give one another things like this.

"Please?" Desmond begs. "I just don't want dad to burn him up. And- and if you have a baby, you can give him the lion too. And then he won't be scared."

Haytham smiles vaguely. Connor would not accept any kind of gift from his father. "Desmond—"

"I named the lion Haytham," Desmond interrupts. "Because you're almost as brave as him."

"Almost," Haytham says with a small smile. "A high honor indeed. Alright, Desmond. I'll keep your lion safe. But you have to make me a promise, alright?"

"What?"

Haytham leans close to Desmond, dropping his voice like this is an important secret. Anything, to make Desmond listen. To make something good happen because of him, just for once. "Be brave," he says. "I know you can, even without your friend."

"I hope so."

"I know you can," Haytham says. "I believe in you."

Desmond slides off his chair and darts over to Haytham—he throws his arms around the man and doesn't let go. "Thank you," he says. "You're good."

Haytham lets one hand run through the boy's hair as he fades, and reaches out to grab the stuffed lion with the other hand. He holds it tight, trying to tie it to this time and place even while he wishes he could pull Desmond through time to be with him instead.

But in the end it is only the toy that stays, and while that is not _enough_ , it is something. Haytham sits and stares at it for a while, thinking about Desmond, William, about Edward and Connor. About fathers and sons and whether he has ever been any good at all at either role.

He sets the lion in a safe place, on a high shelf near the bed. In the mornings after that when he wakes, he looks at the lion and tries to remember how to be as brave as Desmond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just think Haytham wants to love a son and Desmond wants a father to love him, but Connor is good on his own and William is an ass. They need each other.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was challenged to write "Ezio is unhappy. Genuinely unhappy, not 'she won't make out with me' unhappy." And... well, I tried.

There are things Ezio knows, things he will never be able to pass onto his children. He has already decided that neither of them will be assassins, that neither of them will even hearthe word, if he has anything to say about it.

He wants peace for them, not battle, and in his (too-)long life, Ezio has learned nothing if not that assassins have no peace. Not here, in this place and this time, not in the future or the past. And so he is glad when he sees his children smiling and laughing with one another, with their mother, or with friends nearby. It is good.

But they do not laugh with him. Not often, and not as freely as they do with others. They don't know what Ezio has done with his life, but perhaps they have realized he's done something bad. They smile at him, but they do not laugh.

"You're thinking about this too much," Sofia says dismissively, one night when Ezio brings his concern to her. "They adore you. 

Ezio nods, because this at least he does not doubt. They love him, but they do not love to be with him. "I just want them to have happy memories with me," he says. "I don't have that many with my father, but the ones I do have… they are important to me."

She smiles and holds him, says kind things in a soft voice until Ezio is almost convinced that things will be better.

But then in the morning, it is the same as it has ever been, and Ezio is left behind in the house as Flavia and Marcello go running out among the trees, shouting at each other and laughing.

He watches them chase the falling leaves, listens to their shrill laughter as the wind snatches them away again and again.

"Your kids are nice," a voice next to him says, and Ezio looks over at Edward standing nearby. "A girl and a boy, same as mine."

"I suppose," Ezio says. This is Edward very close to the end of his life, quiet and still in a way he never was in his younger days. Maybe that's why Ezio feels comfortable enough to keep going. "I don't know what to do with them. I want to spend time with them, teach them. But the only things I know are ways to kill, and I do not want them to ever learn that."

"I understand," Edward agrees softly. "Do you know how many times I've questioned myself? About not teaching Jenny to fight? Or teaching Haytham to kill? I don't know which of those choices I regret more. Maybe if Jenny knows how to handle a sword on the day I'm killed, she won't be taken. Maybe if Haytham doesn't, the templars won't think he's important enough to bother with."

"And then maybe he'll never leave England," Ezio says. He's still looking at his children, though, thinking of them. "Never father Connor. And then Desmond will never be born, the world will never be saved…"

Edward laughs. "It's awful, isn't it?" he says. "The kind of consequences that come from what we teach our children."

"It seems like they were babies only days ago," Ezio says wistfully. He is thinking more of his children than Edward's. "They smiled at me then."

"Well—" and Edward's smile only seems a little forced. "I don't think I would smile at you either, with that scowl on your face."

And the next thing he knows, he is watching his own body from the outside, shouting after Edward to _give it back already_ , even as Edward goes striding toward the children and the trees.

But Edward doesn't listen (has he _ever_ listened, really?), and he doesn't stop. Soon enough, he has reached the place where Flavia and Marcello are playing. He sits on the ground and calls to them. ("Edward," Ezio protests, "What are you _doing_ —")

And then Edward starts to tell them a story. He's a good storyteller, when he remembers not to go wandering off on tangents. Ezio's children are enthralled by it all, and Ezio is as well, a little. This is a good tale, a story of adventure and impossible journeys, of far away places and daring heroes. It is not until Edward is nearly finished that Ezio recognizes that this is the story of his own life.

Edward had cleaned it up a little, made everything sound bigger than life and exciting, even the hardest parts, and Ezio doesn't understand what Edward's trying to do at first. Not until he looks back at his children, sees the way their faces light up, does he start to get it.

When Sofia calls them into lunch, Edward finally gives Ezio his body back and leans against a nearby tree with a smug smile on his face. "What was that for?" Ezio asks. "I didn't _want_ them to know what I've done—"

"And they don't," Edward says. "That's not how it happened, is it? It's just a story to them."

"Then why tell it?"

"Because kids need heroes," Edward says. "And you want to _be_ a hero to them, I know you do."

"Of course," Ezio says. "But—"

"Papa!" They both turn to look at Flavia as she comes running back toward Ezio from the house. "Mama says you have to come to lunch too, okay?" She tugs at his hand, all restless energy as she smiles up at him.

"Of course," he lets her lead him away, still chattering excitedly.

"…and after lunch, will you tell us more stories?" she asks. "You will, won't you?"

He can't say no. He doesn't want to. "If you want me to, I will." Because he's not as good a storyteller as Edward, but he knows a thing or two. And it's worth it, for the way she smiles.

Today, their kitchen is a happy place, lit by smiles and ringing with laughter. And Ezio whispers a _thank you_ to Edward in the moments before his visitor vanishes.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the original challenge I got, this was supposed to be far more explicit. Instead, we get confirmation that I am completely incapable of writing sexytimes.

The thing about living with a visitor is that it can occasionally be extremely confusing. Tonight, for example. At first when he wakes (well past midnight, and in the comfort of his own bed), it takes a while to realize there's something off about this. Because Aveline, his Aveline in his time, has just given birth to Rory, and this Aveline is clearly pregnant. Not heavily so, just enough that he can tell by looking at her.

Shay shifts closer to her as he gradually wakes, sliding his hand over her full form, wondering which of their children is growing inside her right now. He has always loved her best (and this is saying something, as she is consistently the best thing in his life) when she is pregnant. It is not something Shay understands, but it is always something he has envied. To be so close to their children, to be connected to them…

"Shay," Aveline says quietly. She opens her eyes, smiling at him. "You're home early."

"I'm visiting," he explains.

"Ah." She sits up in bed, slowly because of the extra weight, and Shay shifts as well to support her. They lean against one another, and Shay moves to feel their child shifting against her.

"Who is this?" Shay asks, and then corrects himself. "When is this, I mean?"

"1793."

The future, then, but not far. Less than a year. Aveline catches his hand as he strays again toward her swollen belly. "Do you want to feel what it's like?" she asks quietly.

"Pregnancy?"

She nods, and Shay blinks, considering the question. Then he nods, and in the next moment he finds himself in his wife's body, with the visiting version of herself leaning against Shay where he had been a moment ago. And it is strange.

This isn't the first time he's taken over Aveline's body, and so he expects the usual strangeness of being in a woman's body. But this is a different kind of strange, different but good, and Shay finds himself unbalanced and weighed down and lifted up all at once. Aveline squeezes his shoulder, an understanding smile on her face. Then she stands, walking away from him.

"Wait," Shay protests. "Where are you going?"

"We're about to get another visitor," Aveline says.

"How can you know that?" Shay asks. "Did I tell you, in the past, or—"

"I told you," Aveline says. There's an almost wicked grin on her face that Shay doesn't immediately understand. "You're home early."

And she must have been timing it somehow, because that is the exact moment the bedroom door opens. And Shay sees himself come walking in, his own, not visiting self, from this time. And next to him is Aveline (his Aveline, from his time, or close enough to make no difference), apparently visiting him.

"Ah," Shay says blankly. He looks back at the Aveline that's actually there, and for a moment the smile on her face makes him wonder if she's about to announce that they're all going to jump into bed together. But then visiting Aveline laughs, and does not give actually-there Shay a chance to protest before taking over, and crossing the room to take the place her older self has just recently vacated.

So there they are, in what has to be one of the strangest visits Shay has ever been on. The Aveline and Shay that are actually there, having been replaced in their own bodies, retreat to the other side of the room to give their past selves privacy, and to do things that Shay will apparently find out about in a few months' time. Which leaves himself and Aveline, in each other's bodies, holding one another.

"So," Shay says after a moment. "This is strange."

"I couldn't pass up the opportunity when I saw you in my body," Aveline says seriously. "We've never tried this before."

"True," Shay agrees. They've tried a lot of things, in their long and complicated relationship, but never this. She smiles at him with his mouth, and moves his hands toward him.

The next several minutes are a blur of limbs, of pressing themselves together in a way that is both confusing and wonderful. Shay knows exactly what his body likes best, and Aveline is equally well informed about hers.

When they finish, Shay curls Aveline's body against his own broader one, enjoying the way Aveline wraps her (his? Pronouns are suddenly confusing) arms around him. Shay leans back and rests his hands on the bump where their unknown future child is still just beginning to grow.

"I think I'm jealous," Aveline says.

"Why?"

Her hands in Shay's body are larger than his hands in hers, and she brings them up to cover his, so that they are all three wrapped up together, mother, father, and child. "We haven't even made this child yet, in my time," she says.

"Nor in mine. So?"

"So," she says patiently. "With Phillipe and Rory, I got to meet them first. I felt them in me, months before they were born and either of us got to actually see them. But you got to meet this one first. He, or she, is yours."

"Ours," Shay corrects softly. But he smiles in a way that makes him think he might never stop.

But maybe Aveline has a point. Because parents are not supposed to have favorites, but when Jeanne is born, Shay feels closer to her than he ever had with her brothers. And when she comes to him, years later, and tells him in an uncharacteristically serious voice that she wants to become a templar, Shay is more proud of his little girl than he would ever have imagined possible.


	20. Chapter 20

Both of them are old but Shay is older, when the day finally comes that he will die. Aveline knows at once, as soon as the first visitor arrives, that this is it. She doesn't need to wait for the others, although she knows they will come soon enough. The eight of them are as close as any humans can be, of course they come when it is time for one of them to die.

Desmond is the first, this time, looking surprised and then upset at the sight of Aveline and Shay so old. "Oh," he says, looking uncertainly between the two of them. "So… one of you is going to die?"

Aveline nods and Desmond sighs. He seems to be folding himself into a tight ball, as tight as he can, like he's trying to protect himself from being hurt. "I just came from Ezio's death," he explains. "And I saw Connor's this morning. It's like the universe wants me to see everyone go before this whole end of the world thing tomorrow."

Aveline squeezes his arm (the one she knows he will lose in place of sacrificing the entire world, the one she remembers once seeing him without, during one of the strangest visits of her life), and he gives a resigned smile. "Come and sit down," she tells him quietly, and so Desmond takes a seat at her side.

The others begin arriving soon enough, and Aveline keeps a careful eye on them all as they flicker into being around them. If this is to be Shay's death (and she believes it is his, rather than hers; he is the one that wakes up at night coughing and wheezing, the one that can no longer move on his own, trapped and weighed down by an already decaying body), she wants to know that he will not die at the hands of a hotheaded Altair, for example.

But all their visitors seem far enough along in their own times to at least respect Shay, and Aveline relaxes a little. When the others have all arrived, she gestures Edward toward Desmond. "This is his third death in twenty four hours," she whispers to him, and Edward nods, unusually understanding. But he pulls Desmond back a little way from the others—not out of the group, just to the fringe—and in less than two minutes he has managed to make Desmond crack a smile. Even here; the man is clearly a marvel. When Ezio joins them as well Aveline nods, satisfied that their youngest visitor is taken care of, and turns her attention back to her husband.

He is talking to Haytham at the moment. The grandmaster is younger than Shay now—he had died younger, of course—but there is still that respect in Shay's eyes when he looks up at the dead man. "Thank you," he says, in a voice barely above a wheezing whisper.

"No," Haytham says. "I should be thanking you, Shay. You have given the order a full life of loyal, dedicated service."

"But you saved me," Shay says simply. "When I thought I didn't deserve to live."

Haytham smiles at him. "I would, of course, accept an apology for all the nights you and Aveline kept me awake with some of your louder visits."

"Absolutely not," Aveline says firmly, before Shay can say a word, and she is rewarded by laughs from both of them. Shay reaches for her hand, holding her tenderly.

"Are you afraid?" she asks him.

"Only of leaving you alone."

Aveline makes a dismissive noise and waves his concerns away. "I will miss you—" and for a moment the sheer, lonely size of the rest of her life without Shay at her side sucks the air from her lungs. Then she forces herself to breathe, and to keep going. "Every day of my life, I will miss you. But I still have the children with me."

"Can we bring them here?" Shay asks hopefully. "I would like to see them before I die."

She nods, and stands to retrieve the three of her children that had actually come when Aveline wrote them that their father is dying. Phillipe, Jeanne, and Tomas are all there but Rory—

Connor catches Aveline just outside the door, which surprises Aveline until she realizes he is still visiting Shay, and can't go any farther after her. He looks like the age he actually is at the moment, and Aveline assumes he must be visiting only in space, rather than time. "He's with me," he tells her.

"Rory?" Connor nods and Aveline sags a little in relief.

"He arrived a week ago," Connor explains. "Cut up and angry, but he won't say anything else."

"He and Jeanne had a fight," Aveline explains tiredly. "As they get older, I'm afraid things become more difficult for them. They are torn between loyalty to their family and to the causes they fight for. And now it has hurt them both, and Rory isn't here when he should be…"

She turns away from Connor as the tears start to come, mindful of his dislike for emotions. It's just that her husband is in the next room, dying, and her son is hundreds of miles away, and Aveline isn't sure if she can keep this family together without Shay.

"Aveline," Connor says, far more gently than she expects, and then he hugs her. It's a bit of an awkward situation—Aveline is not sure she's ever had a hug from Connor before. But she's grateful for the attempt anyway. "I'll talk to Rory," he promises. "And I'll send him home as soon as I can."

"Thank you."

"He's just afraid," Connor says. "And angry. I understand."

"Mother?"

Aveline wipes her eyes and turns away from Connor, to see Jeanne looking at her with an expression of absolute confusion. "Jeanne, darling," she says. "I was just about to go find you."

"Were you hugging yourself?"

Aveline opens her mouth, decides this is not the best time to try explaining visitors (again), and shakes her head. "Your father is asking for you," she says. "It's time to say goodbye."

Jeanne nods, and Aveline can already see the tears starting on her daughter's face as she turns away. She almost says something, but Jeanne has always been her father's daughter more than her mother's. Shay will know what to do for her. Instead, Aveline turns and goes in search of Phillippe and Tomas.

When she has found them both and brought them back to the room where Shay lays dying, it's crowded. The family of five, along with six visitors, is too many people for the tiny room. Shay doesn't seem to mind, though, and Aveline is glad to see that he is smiling at all of them, all the way to the end. Eventually, the steady rise and fall of his chest slows, then stops altogether. Jeanne starts to sob and Phillippe hugs her, as Tomas turns away and sniffs like a child trying not to cry.

Aveline knows she should be paying attention to them but just at the moment she can't. She is looking instead at her visitors, Shay's visitors, watching them blink one by one out of existence. She wants them to stay, but there is no way for them to extend a visit to a dead man.

Connor is the last one to go, his sad eyes looking at her as he promises again to bring Rory home and then—

For just a moment, on the far side of the room, Aveline could swear she sees Shay, visiting. Her heart jumps into her mouth (because no, this is not fair, not just at this moment), and she stands. Shay looks young, the way he had in the first, impossibly disordered days of their relationship, when they still needed codewords to confirm that they loved each other. But his eyes are old, as he looks at her, and full of a lifetime of love.

"Aveline-!"

And then there is a strange golden glow all around him, and he vanishes, leaving Aveline alone with their children. And with the unsettling feeling that something unexpected has just happened.


	21. Chapter 21

Shay wakes in Aveline's body, which is momentarily terrifying. And then, after another moment, it is still terrifying because _God_ is she pregnant. Which Shay knows, of course, but it's very different to feel it himself. Shay sits up in bed, struggling under the added weight.

"Careful," Aveline says, and Shay feels her hands on his back.

"Why am I in your body?"

"Because," she says, in a voice of absolute cheerfulness. "I had to give birth to Phillippe and Rory, and trust me, it's not fun. I don't think there's a single woman on this planet that wouldn't let the father give birth for her if given the option."

"And… you have that option," Shay says glumly. "Because of visiting."

Aveline nods. "And lucky you happened to show up for a visit just before I was about to go into labor. You were asleep, so I thought I'd let you into my body "

"How do you know that?" Shay asks, alarmed.

"I had the birthdate from a future Connor," Aveline says. "Which was a surprise to me, because this child is coming earlier than we expected, and you're still in Spain doing whatever it is the templars want you for this time."

"Sorry."

"Well, I wouldn't be too sorry," Aveline says grimly. "Because the baby's coming very soon. My water broke about twelve hours ago, so…"

Shay nods. He had at least been present for the births of his first two children. Suddenly, an alarming idea occurs to him. "So," he says. "I know this is the homestead."

Aveline nods. "Of course." They'd decided even before Phillipe was born that they wanted to have all their children here. Shay still wasn't an enormous fan of the place, but he and Aveline both agreed it was the safest place to do it—Connor had filled the homestead with people he trusted, and (ideally) both he and Shay would be there while Aveline was giving birth. With an assassin and a templar keeping watch, no one from either side would think about interrupting.

Frankly, anyone that knew Aveline would have thought about interrupting while she was pushing a human out of her body and expect to live, but these were the kinds of backup plans that they'd had to learn to make.

"That means Connor's here," Shay says.

"Yes."

"Connor is going to see me give birth."

She smiles at him. "It's nothing he hasn't seen before. He helped with Phillippe and Rory, as much as you did. And I know he's helped with a few other births from the people here."

"But it's weir- _aaaaah_." He grunts in pain as something squeezes at his insides, and Aveline squeezes his hand.

"Connor's in the room next door," she says. "He's close enough that I can go get him without you having to move at all."

"Don't leave—"

"I'll be right back."

And she is, less than thirty seconds later, and Shay hears Connor's footsteps hurrying away and out of the house to tell the doctor. Aveline doesn't move from his side as the contractions gradually get longer and closer together, and then the labor starts to move into what Aveline tells him is her least favorite part. "Things are opening up to let the baby pass," she explains, as Shay lets out a sharp hiss of pain.

"It hurts," Shay says. It hurts more than it had to fall off a cliff.

"Well, yes," Aveline says gently. "That's why I didn't want to do it."

He turns his face away from her, because he can feel the way he's starting to tear up. Shay doesn't think he has ever cried in front of Aveline, certainly not from pain, and he doesn't want this to be the first time. "Hey," she says, pulling his face back toward her. "It's alright. I know."

But after that, it only gets worse. Shay is vaguely aware that the doctor has arrived, and is talking to Connor in a low voice on the other side of the room. They both sound worried, but by now the pain is so intense that Shay can't focus.

The next thing he is clearly aware of is Aveline.

She is back in her own body, but Shay's still there, they are _both_ there, and with the both of them there to share the pain it doesn't seem so bad. They lean into each other, supporting one another as the pain rises, crests, and then drops down again. For a moment. Just for the moment.

 _"It's okay,"_ Aveline whispers at Shay, in their mind, and it is the closest he has ever felt to her.

_"Something's wrong, isn't it?"_

_"Just a little bit,"_ she says. _"The doctor says things will be alright once you can start pushing but for now—"_

She breaks off, both of them distracted as the pain starts up again, and only continues when it ebbs back down. _"For now it's going to hurt."_

 _"I thought you wanted me to do this because it was so painful,"_ Shay says. _"Isn't it my turn?"_

 _"I didn't know it would be worse than usual,"_ Aveline says. _"And I didn't want you to do this alone."_

She stays with him for what feels like hours (honestly it feels like days, but Shay is trying not to whine too much), until the pain drops off again and Dr. White appears in Shay's field of view to tell him to start pushing.

Well, he tells Aveline, as she's the one he thinks is in the body, which reminds Shay— _"You should go,"_ he says. _"Not that this isn't… I love having you here."_ In any other circumstances, he would have felt absolutely nothing but joy at being so impossibly close to his wife. But this is far from normal. _"But you asked me to do this for you, and I will."_

_"Shay—"_

_"Besides. This one is mine. The one you were pregnant with on the day we traded bodies, the one I got to meet first. I want to do this. For you, and for the baby, and… for me."_

She smiles, and he feels that smile in his mind, and stretching across the face they're sharing. And then she's gone, mostly, back to being a mostly invisible visitor by Shay's side.

"You're supposed to be pushing," Connor reminds him, and Shay starts.

This part is not as bad as the parts before it had been. Yes, it is uncomfortable, but there are joys mixed in with the pain now. The first time the doctor announces he can see the baby's head, Shay feels… _something_ , something beautiful and warm like nothing he has ever experienced before. He feels heady as the doctor talks him softly through the rest of the process—he would call it an out of body experience, except that's sort of stating the obvious. And then…

When the baby cries for the first time, Shay almost cries as well, from the sheer strength of the feelings coursing through him. He is only vaguely aware of delivering the afterbirth, and then Connor is pushing Shay's bundled up daughter into his arms. "You have a beautiful daughter," he says seriously. "Congratulations."

Shay smiles at him. Then he smiles at the baby. Because she is beautiful, she is _perfect_ , she is an impossible miracle. Aveline sits herself down on the bed next to Shay, leaning against him. The doctor leaves to go fetch something, so no one is around to see the skeptical look Connor gives the pair of them.

"I know everyone keeps telling me I shouldn't have married an innocent," he says. "But at least she never asked me to do that."

"It wasn't so bad," Shay says.

"An hour ago you were cursing creatively enough to teach Edward a thing or two."

"Alright," Shay amends. "It was bad. But she's worth it." He looks down at the bundle in his arms, at the little girl that had been inside him, _a part of him_ , and thinks he will never be as happy as he is in this moment. He aches to be here in person, dreads the moment that this visit will end and he will be sent back to Spain. He wishes he had learned to extend visits the way Aveline had.

Connor nods, although by his expression he still doesn't understand. Shay looks over at Aveline, and she just as obviously _does_. "What are you going to name her?" Connor asks.

"Jeanne," Shay says at once. "For her grandmother." They have not discussed this (honestly, they had expected to have another son, given past performance), but Aveline gives him a look that is all pleased surprise before she kisses him.

"I'm coming home," Shay says. "As soon as the visit is over."

"You're done with whatever the templars sent you to do, then?" Aveline asks.

"No. I—"

But that is the moment the visit actually _does_ end, and Shay finds himself back in Spain, blade pressed to the neck of the assassin he'd been just about to kill. For a moment he feels cold and alone without Jeanne in his arms and Aveline at his side, but then he remembers they are together, and feels marginally better.

"If you're going to kill me," the assassin says (with impressive composure, considering he is shaking like a leaf under Shay's blade). "Just do it already."

"No," Shay says, because he needs to go home, _now_. He pulls back his blade and then, because he can't stop himself, hugs the assassin.

"Gyah!"

"I—my _wife_ just gave birth," Shay says happily. "And I need to go see our daughter."

He takes off running, back toward where the _Morrigan_ is docked, with a madman's smile dancing across his face.


	22. Chapter 22

Altair is more frightened than he wants to admit by Desmond's abrupt appearance and sudden disappearance. When he rides for Damascus, he rides fast and hard to keep himself from thinking about it. One horse, then two, the second stolen from a village he passes through when the first one has been run to exhaustion.

Altair doesn't stop. He doesn't even sleep, and that makes the fear easier to deal with. It has been a long time since he has been afraid of anything but right now he is terrified that he is being haunted.

There is something in Desmond that reminds him of Kadar. They are not the same person, not in their faces or their voices or their dress. But they have the same look to them, of someone in over their head, useless in war but dragged into one anyway. Kadar's war had been the assassin's fight, but Altair has no idea what Desmond is stuck fighting.

Regardless. There is something of Kadar in his manner that makes Altair feel like he is being haunted by his mistake in Solomon's Temple. That must be what this is, a punishment for all the wrongs he has done. Which is irritating, as al Mualim is already punishing him by demoting him. The haunting hardly seems fair.

Altair rides on, past sunset and into the night. He isn't sure how long it takes him to realize the woman's arms are around his waist, but eventually the tight hold manages to pierce his distraction and Altair throws himself immediately off the horse, letting it gallop off without him as he wrestles the woman to the ground. She is quick and confident, but Altair is strong and determined. There is no conversation to this fight, nothing but grunts of effort and pain. Altair lands one or two hard blows on her, but she shakes them off and continues her attack.

He is unhappy to realize they are evenly matched, but after what feels like quite a long time she abruptly goes still. "I surrender."

It might still be a trap. Altair leans over the woman, pressing down on her so that his weight has her pinned and his blade is a visible threat across her neck. She smiles at him with deliberate charm.

Well. That's a weapon he wasn't exactly expecting.

"Speak," Altair growls. "Who sent you?"

"No one," the woman says cheerfully. She is looking at his missing finger as if that tells her something. "I'm merely visiting. You must be Altair."

"How do you know my name?" he demands. "Where are you visiting _from_?"

"New Orleans," she says. "Hundreds of years from now. And you're the only one of us old enough to have cut off your finger to use a hidden blade."

He ignores the finger comment for the moment—all assassins lose their fingers—and focuses on where she says she's from. "I don't know where that is."

"Well, no, it doesn't exist yet. Can I get up now?"

"No," Altair insists. "Not until you make sense."

"I'm Aveline. A visitor."

"You keep saying that word."

She squints at him, suddenly uncertain. "Is this your first visit? Your first time someone has appeared to you that no one else can see?"

"There was Desmond," Altair says slowly. This woman does not feel like a ghost, and she in no way reminds him of Kadar. Maybe this isn't a punishment.

"Well there are eight of us, in total," Aveline says. "Or so I'm told—I've only met a few. We simply appear in one another's lives from time to time."

"Then… this will keep happening?"

She laughs in a way that makes Altair think _again_ that he is being punished. "Oh, absolutely," she says. "All the time. It's fun, really."

And then she vanishes, so abruptly that Altair collapses onto the ground where she had been a moment ago. And then, alone in the desert with no one to see and the world breaking into pieces around him, Altair flips over and shouts a pointless, senseless objection up at the stars overhead.


	23. Chapter 23

Aveline is nervous as her horse carries her closer to the homestead. It's annoying—she's never nervous, and she doesn't know what to do with the feeling. Aveline raises one hand from the reigns and watches as it shakes. This is ridiculous. She doesn't even feel nervous like this when she fights, when her life is in danger.

But this is so much more than just her life, isn't it? It's her visitors. It's proving they're real, or proving she's insane. Because Aveline has an invitation here, she had worked all this out with a visiting Connor weeks ago. They'd figured out a day for her to arrive, and Connor had told Aveline he'd be there waiting for her.

He'd _promised_.

But if none of this is real, Connor won't be expecting her. Aveline had made sure not to tell anyone where she was planning to go. She hadn't even told anyone she was leaving in the first place, she'd traveled at night to keep from being seen, to eliminate all natural ways Connor could hear Aveline is coming.

If he knows, it will be because he really was there, in New Orleans with Aveline. They really had walked down the streets side by side with one another, talking about things they couldn't tell anyone else. The struggles of being assassins, of being alone because all they knew how to do was fight. In the twilight of a city lit by stars and candles, Connor had confessed things to Aveline he would never have told her if there had been a chance of anyone else hearing. The things that scared him, and the things he dreamed of.

Connor has always been a friend to Aveline, but that night was the first time she had really felt like a friend to him. And that… in the end, that's the reason Aveline had suggested this in person meeting. It's a way to prove to herself that visitors are real, and that is suddenly the most important thing, because she really wants a friend. When Connor had agreed, and invited her to the homestead, it had come as a relief.

She forces herself to breathe more deeply as she comes closer to the place she knows Connor has settled. The homestead, Connor calls it, and when he says the word all the emphasis is on _home_. But Aveline doesn't really know what to expect when she gets there. Something military, maybe. A place for training, like Masyaf.

She rides on, and almost misses the place where the homestead begins. It is so… ordinary. A normal town on the edge of the frontier, with nothing on the face of it to mark it as an assassin stronghold.

"Aveline," someone calls behind her, and she reigns her horse in, startled. "Aveline!"

"Connor?"

He's slick with sweat and his hands are dirty from where he's been working along with a group of men mending a fence. Aveline doesn't recognize any of the others, and for that matter she almost doesn't recognize Connor. He's dressed in casual, working clothes instead of his assassin whites, and his mouth is doing a thing that isn't actually a smile but _is_ happy. He has traded his tomahawk and gun for a hammer and nails, but Aveline is not surprised to see his hidden blades still strapped to his arms. He is still an assassin, after all.

"You came," he says. "I was starting to think you'd changed your mind."

"No," Aveline assures him, dropping smoothly from her horse to stand next to him on the ground. She feels suddenly overdressed in her own assassin clothes. "Not at all."

"Let me introduce you," Connor says, and he does. For the next several hours, Aveline follows Connor around the entirety of the little town, introducing her to everyone they pass. And they all have something nice to say about Connor—how he saved their lives, or made them _better_ , how kind he is, how brave… Connor is bright red by the end of it, but pleased.

(He is _less_ happy by the way most of the homestead's women ask not quite innocent questions about their relationship, but Aveline thinks it's hilarious)

And if Connor is pleased, so is Aveline. They find a place out of the way of the rest of the homestead to talk in private, and after a few moments of silence, Aveline hugs Connor. Briefly, because she knows he doesn't like it.

"What was that for?"

"I'm just… glad you're happy."

"And glad I knew you were coming, I imagine," Connor says, and Aveline nods.

"I… wasn't sure you would," she admits. "I wanted this visiting thing to be real, but I didn't know."

"We're lucky," Connor says. "You, me, my father, Shay." He scowls briefly at the last two names, but the expression doesn't last as long as it would have anywhere else. "We live at the same time as each other. We can prove that all this is real. The others…"

"I know," Aveline agrees. She does feel lucky, very lucky, and amazingly calm compared to the trembling mess she had been only a few hours ago. "Thank you for inviting me here."

Connor looks at her seriously, which is not a surprise. He does almost everything seriously, even here where he is happy. "You should always feel welcome here," he says. "This place…" he hesitates, head cocked sideways as he thinks of how to start. "When I came here, it was very small, and very quiet. It was just Achilles then, and he was bitter, and when I was younger I thought him unkind."

"But?"

"But he was just lonely," Connor says. "And so was I. And that was the first time I realized I could choose the people I cared about, and that cared about me, and we could be something like… like a family. It was a good feeling, and I wanted to feel it again. I wanted others to feel it, too. So I started finding people that the world had abandoned, or people that were tired of being alone, and I brought them here."

He does that thing with his mouth again, the one that almost looks like a smile, and Aveline has no problem beaming back at him. "You brought me here," she says.

 "I did," Connor agrees. And he doesn't hug her (because he is Connor), but he gives her a kind of awkward pat on the shoulder that means the same thing. "And as I said, you are always welcome here."


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of context: earlier today, I was talking to Riona, who will ship anything (but like seriously, anything- I think it might be a medical condition), and we started talking about which visitors would be most likely to have a one night stand. Somehow we stumbled onto this pairing.
> 
> So Riona, you're welcome- everyone else, I am so sorry.

The thing is…

The thing is, maybe none of it would have happened if Desmond hadn't already (constantly) been miserable, if Rebecca and Shaun hadn't been preoccupied with each other, if Edward hadn't been just the right amount of drunk. Desmond is still awake when Edward drops in for a visit, and makes himself comfortable next to Desmond's sleeping bag. He smells of salt water and rum, of someplace far away and long ago. The scent of Edward washes over Desmond like a wave, familiar and oddly comforting after all this time.

Normally, Edward won't just drop down next to Desmond if Desmond is still awake. He'll poke and prod at him, complaining until Desmond sits up and pays attention to him. It's only when Desmond is already asleep that Edward will curl up with him the way he does now. Desmond lies still with his eyes mostly shut and pretends to be sleeping—he's not in the mood to talk.

There's not much room for sharing on a sleeping bag, and they always end up pressed right up against each other. Spooning, Desmond would have called it, if for some reason he wanted to connect the word to Edward in his mind.

He doesn't. He really doesn't. For now, he can just about convince himself this is okay by keeping words like that very _firmly_ out of his mind.

It's a little harder today. Rebecca and Shaun have (either out of respect or because they're looking for privacy) gone into another section of the temple together. The problem is that the temple is basically a cave, and that caves echo. Desmond can hear everything, and the inevitable, unwanted mental images make it harder not to think about how he and Edward would look if anyone else were to see them right now.

He tries to think of something else. Anything else. And (inevitably, maybe), his mind turns to Lucy. She'd been the last person Desmond had thought of in that way, and it's almost funny how different it had felt to lay next to Lucy than it feels to be here on the floor with Edward now. It's _definitely_ funny that he's more comfortable lying next to Edward. With Lucy it had been… a mistake, probably. They'd never spoken of that night afterward, and even at the time, there had been something off about it all. Knowing what he knows now, Desmond isn't even sure if she'd _wanted_ that night. Maybe she'd just wanted to keep him under control while she spied on him.

Edward, at least, is a friend. An imaginary friend, but a friend nonetheless. Desmond turns over on the sleeping bag so he can almost see Edward's face in the darkness, and Edward's eyes slide halfway open. He sort of bumps his forehead against Desmond's, and mumbles, "What're you doing?"

"Thinking," Desmond says quietly.

"'bout what?"

"Kissing you."

And he doesn't really mean it like that, he'd just been thinking about kissing Lucy and then he'd been thinking about Edward and somewhere between his sleep deprived brain and his stupid mouth the words had messed themselves up. Edward blinks at him, and shrugs his shoulders a little. "M'kay," he says, and suddenly his mouth is moving in close to Desmond's, and Desmond has to jerk back quickly.

"What? No, I didn't mean—"

"You said it," Edward says. He looks a little more alert now, but he smells so strongly of rum that Desmond knows he can't be sober. And anyway, the way his words are ever so slightly slurred is also a pretty big clue. "Why not?"

"You're not even real," Desmond says.

"Am so," Edward insists, almost pouting. "You're so mean, Desmond. _I_ believe _you're_ real." Desmond isn't sure he has an answer to that, but luckily (or unluckily) Edward doesn't seem to need Desmond's input to continue the conversation. "And anyway, if you're so convinced I'm not real, who cares what we do together?"

He actually pauses to let Desmond answer this time, but Desmond can't actually think of a reason. There must be one, obviously, it's just that Desmond is having a hard time putting the words together right now. So instead, he says, "You're a guy, Edward. I don't do guys."

Edward makes a noise of flat disinterest in reply.

"But—"

Fuck, why is he even trying to avoid this? He's lonely, and he just wants to stop thinking about Lucy. Just for one night. And Edward's _right_ , it's not like this counts if he's imaginary. And he is imaginary. Of course he is. So this is okay, this is…

Kissing Edward is nothing like kissing Lucy. She had been content to let Desmond take the lead, moving at his own pace, keeping everything safely inside his comfort zone. But as soon as Desmond jerks forward (a desperate, scared movement), almost hitting Edward with his mouth more than anything else, Edward is completely in control. He's as aggressive in this as he is in everything else, not at all afraid to take what he wants. His hands come up to cradle Desmond's face, pulling him closer, and even though this is all strange and quite possibly insane, it makes Desmond feel actually _wanted_.

Edward's fingers are rough and calloused (fingers like fish hooks, he likes to say), and it feels good when he slides them up Desmond's face, digging into his hair and resting there, solid and firm and…

And _oh,_ if only this was happening with someone else, someone real—Desmond's own hands have been resting uselessly at his side through all this. Now he brings them up, shaking a little and trying to pull Edward close the same way Edward is pulling at him. His fingers trace a path up and along a thin scar right at Edward's hairline. The man's whole face is cut up and rough, a mess of still healing injuries and old scars, the story of his life scratched out in blood. It's fascinating, to Desmond's fingers at least. He can't stop touching, not with his fingers, not with his lips.

He doesn't even want this. Not with Edward. But he wants something, and he has no idea what that something is. This is probably a bad idea, but then again it can't be any worse than anything else in Desmond's life for the past several months. He shudders and groans, and tries not to think about anything but the feeling of Edward all over him.

And then suddenly he can't breathe, and that's when he realizes he's crying. Sobbing, really, so hard that his whole body shakes. He slides away from Edward, and the other man seems to realize something is wrong. "Desmond?"

He shakes his head, he can't choke out the words. He doesn't even _know_ what's wrong, just that he's lonely and he's tired, and the only good thing to happen to him in months had been a lie. His one night with Lucy had been just as unreal as this… whatever this is, with his imaginary visitor. Nothing in his life is real anymore, _nothing,_ and… and…

Edward sighs and pulls Desmond close to him again. But this time he just holds Desmond, tight, letting Desmond cry against his shoulder. "Sorry," he mutters, rubbing his hand against Desmond's back. "I didn't mean—"

"It's fine," Desmond says. He gulps like a fish against the sobs that still won't stop, and his words are wet and muffled with his mouth pressed into Edward's shirt. "You're fine. You're good. I just—" And then the words are swallowed up by fresh sobbing. Edward pats him patiently and waits it out. In the end, when Desmond runs out of tears, they settle back down to sleep in the same position they always have in the past—Desmond on his side, with Edward pressed against his back. His bony chin digs into the back of Desmond's head, and Edward's arms are firm around his chest. Desmond lets out a long, miserable sigh, and drops off to sleep.

Edward is gone when Desmond wakes the next morning, which is a relief. He's not ready to talk about what happened. Maybe he won't ever be ready. He joins Shaun and Rebecca and his father for breakfast, picking at their cold cereal and only managing a few bites. Halfway through the meal, Shaun makes a face and puts down his spoon.

"Alright, Desmond," he says. "I was trying not to mention it, but your breath smells awful. I know we're living in a cave, but please at least try to have some regard for your own hygiene."

Desmond shrugs and mumbles something about not knowing what Shaun's talking about, but he does. He'd noticed it the second he woke up, the taste of salt water and rum in his mouth where Edward had kissed him.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place very early in the visitorsverse.

This Aveline is one of Ezio's favorite visitors, although he's only seen her a few times. Although to be fair, he's still fairly new to this whole visiting thing—he hasn't had time to see anyone more than once or twice. Still, he feels he knows Aveline well enough already to know now that something's wrong. When she arrives in Monteriggioni this evening, her normal good humor is gone, and she's frowning.

"What's the matter with you?" Ezio asks, and judging by the way her frown intensifies, this is not the right approach to take.

"What makes you think something's wrong?" she demands.

"Nothing! You just—you look so serious."

"Well, you should try being serious yourself once in a while," Aveline snaps.

"Whoa, Aveline, seriously." He holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "I'm trying to help."

She looks him over, then shakes her head. "It's nothing."

"It's obviously _something_ , so why don't you just tell me?"

"You really want to know?"

"Yes!" 

"Fine." She crosses her arms and glares at him. "You know that bleeding effect Desmond keeps talking about?"

"Sure," Ezio says. He's still not entirely sure what it's supposed to do, but he has a vague idea that it's somehow related to which memories are in Desmond's head. "What's that got to do with you?"

"I'm having an entirely different kind of bleeding effect at the moment," Aveline announces, and then she crosses her arms and looks at Ezio like she's daring him not to get it.

Still, it takes him a second. "Oh!" he says at last. "You mean you're on your… ah."

"And it's very uncomfortable," Aveline says sharply. "You try assassinating a man when you've got a handful of rags shoved up your underclothes, and your insides feel all out of balance."

"I'm glad I don't have to."

She sighs, and looks so sad that Ezio feels moved to say or do something. Past experience with Claudia tells him that he _will_ say the wrong thing if he tries to speak, so Ezio doesn't bother. Aveline is looking more prickly than a porcupine at the moment, but Ezio decides to risk hugging her anyway. For a second she resists, stiff and unresponsive in Ezio's arms. Then she gives in, just a little, and accepts the offered comfort.

"Wish I could do more," Ezio says, and Aveline scoffs.

"At this point," she says. "The only thing that would help is physically giving me a new body."

"Hmm." Ezio frowns at her. "I'm pretty sure that's not actually possible."

"More's the pity," Aveline sighs.

"Well." He grins at her. "I'd offer you mine, but it's a little bit occupied at the moment."

She actually laughs. "At this point I'd actually take you up on that offer," she says. "Smells and all."

"Hey!"

"I'm teasing, Ezio."

"Still—"

And that's the last thing he manages to say before suddenly he's _not_ in his body. He's standing where Aveline had been a moment ago, hugging… his own body. Ezio takes a startled step back and glances down at himself, just to make sure he hasn't suddenly become Aveline. He hasn't.

"Ezio?" the other Ezio asks, and he says it in Ezio's voice.

"What the _fuck_?" Ezio demands. Then, because they'd been joking about it but suddenly Ezio is concerned that it's actually possible, he adds, "Aveline?"

"I didn't think you could actually give me your body!"

"Still." She's grinning at him from _his_ face, and ahhhhh God, it's weird. Ezio can't stop looking at him (her?). "Do you think this is temporary?"

"I hope so. How did you do that?"

"How do you know _you_ didn't do it?"

He shrugs helplessly, and Aveline echoes the movement. It's like looking in a mirror. "I am never going to get used to this," Ezio says fervently. "Do you think we could do this with other visitors?"

"I've never exactly tried," Aveline says doubtfully. "But I hope not. This visiting thing is complicated enough without being able to steal each other's bodies."

Ezio nods. This is true. "Still," he says, in a rather belated attempt at being polite. "I'm glad it worked out this time, and I could help you feel better. You _do_ feel better, don't you?"

"For now," Aveline says. "Thank you, Ezio, you're quite the gentleman."

"Well, so are you at the moment."

Aveline's laugh is almost a _giggle_ , which wouldn't have been a problem except that Ezio has never heard a noise like that coming out of his own mouth. He makes a face and Aveline laughs at him again, possibly just to annoy him. Ezio decides not to let it get to him, and grins at her instead. "Hey," he says. "As long as you're in my body, will you do me a favor?"

"What kind of favor?"

"Make out with me?" He raises his voice over her predictable, knee jerk objections. "Come on, Aveline! I've always wanted to try!"

" _Why_?"

"What, you haven't?"

"Ezio…" she puts a hand on his shoulder, and leans in close. Very close. Ezio's heart speeds up a bit in anticipation.

"Yes?"

She leans over so that her mouth is right next to his ear, and he can feel her breath against the side of his face. "That's weird," she whispers. "And it's never going to happen."

"Aw—" Ezio protests, even as Aveline takes several steps back, laughing again. It's not a giggle this time but a genuine, breathless, laugh. "Come on, Aveline! You can't _tease_ me like that—" And then all of a sudden Ezio is back in his own body, the echoes of Aveline's laughter dying out on his own lips. He straightens up, trying to compose himself from the abrupt transition. Aveline is nowhere in sight, and Ezio feels safe in assuming that her visit is over.

Well. At least it had been an interesting one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been wanting to make a period=bleeding effect joke for like three years now, but this is the first time I could fit it in somewhere that makes sense. Haha, what a relief.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less than normal amounts of visiting here. But hey, a baby!

Edward really has no idea what to do with Jenny. Part of the problem is that she is a daughter instead of a son, and Edward has had exactly zero experience with little girls. Or not so little, anymore, which was another part of the problem. At twelve years old, Jenny is already as stubborn as her father, and most likely a good deal smarter. Whether this is a matter of pride or exasperation depends largely on if she happens to agree with him on any given day.

On the day Tessa goes into labor, Jenny is worse than usual. She's moody, rude even, and locks herself in her room very early on in the process. Edward (who already has enough to deal with, between Tessa's fears and the midwife's curt demands) lets her be for the moment. Jenny's old enough to take care of herself, and if she wants to spend the entire day sulking alone in her room, then fine. He'll let her do that.

Time seems to pass in a kind of blur, and just when Edward is convinced that this is never going to work, that the baby has changed its mind and decided not to arrive today after all, it's over. The baby is out (and so are the sticky little bits of birth that come after), wrapped in a blanket and handed immediately off to Tessa to hold.

Edward wants to stay in the room with his wife and son (which comes as a relief, quite frankly—he has enough problems with a daughter that can walk and feed herself, he has no idea how he would handle one the approximate size of a breadbox). He hovers impatiently in the doorway until the midwife gets tired of him being in the way and snaps at him that if he's not doing anything else useful, he might as well help her clean up.

And Edward will fight pirates and templars and quite frankly any other man that asks for it, but he's a little afraid of this woman. She's covered in Tessa's blood (Edward has been assured this is normal), and not just blood but other fluids, afterbirth and things Edward doesn't even want to name. He'd never even liked watching the sheep give birth, back when he was a child on his family's farm. In his opinion, a woman covered in these fluids is certainly not one to be messed with.

Which is why he doesn't actually get to hold his son for quite some time. Or at least it feels like a long time—Edward never really knows how long the midwife has him running errands and cleaning up, but it feels like an age. And then—he's not quite sure how it happens—he's standing in the hallway holding what he's fairly sure is the world's most perfect infant in his arms.

"Oh." Edward says. He pokes the baby to check that he's real (decides that yes, the baby is real, and also that maybe he shouldn't be poking him). Then he smiles. "Hello there, baby." They've talked a little about names, but haven't been able to agree. Suddenly, this seems like an oversight—Edward wants this baby to just have a name already, so he can start getting to know him, and the baby will really be like a tiny little person in his arms.

Edward can't take his eyes off the baby as he walks to Tessa's room, but he looks up at his wife in bed when he finally gets there. "Tessa," he whispers. "Tessa!"

"Edward?" She sounds absolutely exhausted.

"We need to name him."

A moment of silence, then, "Just give him whatever name you think is best."

"Really?"

She makes a tired noise in response, and Edward backs out of the room before she can change her mind. Well, if it's his choice, he's going with Haytham. It had been one of the names he'd really pushed for earlier, because it was a good name (an assassin's name), but Tessa had been less than happy about the idea. She'd said it would make him different.

Edward had said that was good. Their son was going to be different, of course he was, he was theirs and he was perfect and who cared if anyone else knew?

So. Now that Tessa no longer has an opinion—Haytham it is. Edward whispers the name in the baby's ear, and the baby makes a noise in response. Probably just an accident, but Edward chooses to take it as approval anyway. Then he heads to Jenny's room to introduce her to her little brother.

Jenny doesn't answer the door the first time Edward knocks, but he's not in a giving up kind of a mood, and she gives in first. "Dad," she complains, arms crossed as she glares at him. "What?"

"Do you want to see the baby?"

She glances for a second at the bundle in Edward's arms, then shakes her head. "No."

"No?" The idea that someone might not be excited to see Haytham has honestly not occurred to Edward. The idea that Jenny might not want to leaves him almost stunned. "Why not?"

"I hate him!"

"Jenny—" She tries to slam the door and Edward sticks his foot in the way, which hurts but at least keeps the door from closing. "Hey, Jenny. Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing."

"Something," Edward insists, and Jenny sighs, sitting down on her bed. Edward sits next to her with Haytham in his arms.

"I can't tell you," she mutters.

"Sure you can." Edward drops his voice. "Jenny, you know where I've come from, and the things I've done." Some of them, anyway. As a general rule of thumb, if his visitors don't approve of something he's done, Edward usually won't tell Jenny about it. Still, she knows enough. "You have my secrets. You can tell me yours."

She won't look at him. That's what alarms Edward the most about all this, the fact that she's staring at the empty space behind him, like there's something fascinating there, or like she simply doesn't want to look her father in the eye. Maybe there's something more wrong here than he'd thought. Eventually, Jenny shakes her head and says, "You believe in things that aren't real, don't you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, all those stories you used to tell me when I was younger." As long ago as all of two years, she means, before she started doing this awkward growing up thing, and didn't want to spend as much time with her father. "The Observatory, things like that. You believe in all them?"

"They are real," Edward insists gently, but Jenny waves him away like that's not the point.

"I know… or at least, I've spoken to someone that knows. Things about the future."

Well, so has Edward, through his visitors. Somehow, he doesn't think that's what Jenny's talking about (because how difficult would it be, really, to know his own child is a visitor?), so he just nods and waits for the rest of her explanation.

"This friend I have knows when you're going to die," Jenny says miserably. "The exact night."

"What's this friend's name?"

"Jacob."

Edward gives her a sharp look. "I don't know a Jacob." So how does Jenny? And when did she start talking to boys? He's not sure how he feels about that.

"No," Jenny agrees. "You don't. But Jacob says you'll die—that you'll be killed—on the night before my brother's tenth birthday. And as I've never had a brother before, it never seemed real. But now he's here."

Something about her voice, and the conviction in it, makes Edward… uncertain. Because it's impossible that she should know the day he's going to die, but… well, she's right. There are things like the Observatory in the world, like the pieces of Eden, like visitors, even. How does he know this isn't real? And Jenny is so convinced…

After a while, when Edward thinks he can speak without his voice shaking, he says, "That's not your brother's fault."

She looks reluctantly at Haytham. "I suppose not." She reaches a hand out hesitantly, then pokes Haytham gently on the forehead. Edward laughs softly, and Jenny pulls her hand back as though burnt. "Sorry," she says. "I just… I can't quite believe he's real."

"Don't worry," Edward says, winking at her. "I did the same thing."

Jenny grins a little, and Edward shifts closer. "Do you want to hold him?"

"I—" she hesitates, and Edward can see the uncertainty on her face.

"He won't bite you," he promises. "He doesn't even have teeth."

And somehow, that manages to break the dark mood in the room. Jenny laughs aloud, and lets Edward shift Haytham into her arms. She's smiling as she looks down at her brother, and that's certainly an improvement. "Don't worry," he says, putting his arm around his daughter's shoulders. "Everything will work out just fine. You'll see."

"I hope so." But although she does look happier, Jenny doesn’t look any less convinced than she had before.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, it's not Jacob Frye: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4572612/chapters/10927016


	27. Chapter 27

The visit takes Aveline completely by surprise, and she is not dressed for the winter she suddenly finds herself in. Aveline looks around, momentarily horrified at the way she has been carried suddenly to this unknown place and time. The cold bites into her thin summer dress, and she shudders uncontrollably, wrapping her arms around herself. She wants to go home. This visiting thing is still a new and uncertain thing in her life, and just at this moment she wants it over and done with. She wishes glumly that there was a way to end a visit early, but dismisses the thought. No one even knows how visiting works, much less how to manipulate it.

After two or three minutes of distracted thought, Aveline realizes something is wrong. Visiting implies there should be someone here with her, and so far she hasn't seen any sign of anyone. And in this weather, with the snow limiting visibility, Aveline could have been almost anywhere. She has no idea where she is, or when she is, or who she's come to visit.

Curious now, she looks around with her eagle vision. Nothing. And then she looks _down_ , and sees the man half buried in the snow.

Aveline doesn't think about her own freezing fingers as she drops to her knees and starts to dig. It is not until she's dug for several seconds that she clears off the man's face and sees Shay. His lips are blue, his face white—the blood on the churned up snow where she's been digging is red.

He looks nothing like the man that had surprised her in her changing booth a few weeks ago, bashful and full of impossible stories—well, they had seemed impossible at the time. Aveline is looking at visiting in a different light, these days. But the point is… the point is, it would be so _sad_ to lose Shay now. They've only ever spoken once. Every time Aveline has a visitor, or goes on a visit, she catches herself hoping that she'll see Shay again. But no. She's had every other visitor multiple times, but not Shay. And now he's dead.

Aveline rests a trembling hand on his neck, feeling for a pulse she doesn't dare hope will be there. For ten, twenty long seconds, she feels nothing, and then suddenly—there it is. Weak, yes, but all too present, and Aveline's heart leaps as Shay stirs weakly and opens his eyes.

When had his wellbeing become so important to her? Maybe it's just seeing him like this, so helpless and weak and close to death. Maybe it's… something else. It's a thought for later, and she pushes it away.

Shay mouths something through numb lips, but doesn't actually manage to make a sound. Aveline leans toward him, cupping his face in her hands, hoping visitors can share warmth with one another. Not that she has much to give just now; she's cold through herself.

Shay shakes as he starts to get to all fours, snow sliding off him like an avalanche off a mountain. "No!" Aveline hisses—there are men shouting from somewhere overhead, and she is suddenly terrified that they are looking for Shay. Someone has obviously shot him. Maybe they're coming back to finish the job. "Don't move, Shay, lie still until it's safe!"

He won't stay still, though, and Aveline thinks his ears might be frozen through. His ears or his brain, maybe. He shrugs off Aveline's hand on his shoulder, tries to stagger to his feet. Aveline feels the first stirrings of fear run through her. No. She's simply not going to let him do something stupid and get himself killed.

There's only one thing she can think of to do. A few weeks ago, she'd accidentally taken over Ezio's body while she'd been on a visit to him. Maybe she'll be able to do the same to Shay now.

She'll have to, or else he might not make it out of here. Aveline closes her eyes and pushes herself into Shay. That's how she pictures it, anyway. Feeding herself into Shay's body, into his mind, into what feels like his soul. She isn't sure it will work, not until the moment it actually _does._

And that moment is perfectly clear, because one second she is merely cold and the next she is frozen through, all but her shoulder, which burns. Aveline closes her eyes for a moment, gathering strength, then opens them again. She expects to see a visiting Shay in front of her, like she had seen Ezio on the first occasion she learned she could do this. But there is no sign of Shay, and it's only after a moment of panic that Aveline realizes she can still feel him, like a tiny, flickering flame hidden at the edge of his own mind. She wonders why things are different this time—maybe it's just because he is so weak and close to dying.

Aveline lies still until the voices overhead fade into silence. Then she lies still another few minutes just to make sure they're not coming back. After that, she lies still for far longer than she wants to, trying to make herself move. It's hard. The only thing she can feel at this point is the pain in her arm, and it's hard to make her limbs listen when she can't even feel them.

On top of this difficulty, the fact that they aren't even her limbs doesn't seem to matter much.

And then—because all this could not possibly get any more difficult—Aveline feels her visit drawing to an end. It's a feeling she has learned to vaguely recognize from earlier visits. This time, she grits her teeth and she _fights it off_. She cannot let this visit end early, not until she knows for sure that Shay is safe. It's hard. It's so hard, like trying not to think about something in particular once she's been told not to, like keeping something from connecting in her mind. Aveline grits her teeth and struggles through it. This is important. Shay is a visitor, and more than that she thinks he has the potential to be a friend. There are certainly few enough of those in her life. Aveline simply isn't going to let Shay die on her now.

Eventually, and to her own intense surprise, Aveline finds herself on her feet. She starts walking, and finds it works best when she doesn't think about how hard it is. At some point, her legs just start moving automatically, and it's only when she thinks about it that they stumble and hesitate.

She thinks instead about who could have done this. Templars, maybe. She knows very little about Shay (far less than she would like to know), and it is impossible to guess at more specific reasons. Still, templars are always a safe bet.

Aveline doesn't know how long she walks, but eventually she sees a camp on the horizon. She changes course and heads straight toward it—she has no idea who might be waiting here, whether they are enemy or ally or just someone unlucky enough to be traveling in this weather. All she knows for certain right now is the sting of snow against her face, the heavy numbness of legs and arms she can't feel, the tired ache of the bullet wound on her shoulder.

A man comes running toward her from the camp, a shout of alarm on his lips, and Aveline lets herself slip gratefully from Shay's body. He falls at once back into the snow, but now at least there is someone coming to help him. Aveline waits, exhausted, until she sees the man approach and bend over Shay. Hopefully what she's done is enough, and he will live.

When the stranger hauls Shay to his feet, Aveline stops fighting the end of her visit. Something clicks into place in her mind, and Aveline is abruptly back at home. And it is summer here, and warm, but Aveline doesn't feel it. Not really. She feels cold, inside and out, and in the end she crawls into bed, burying herself under layers of blankets until the shivering slows and eventually stops.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sleep? Who needs sleep? I'll just stay up until 1AM giving myself Kenway feels.

He's had a scary dream, and now he can't get back to sleep.

Haytham buries himself under his blankets, and tries not to think about it. But three years old is not old _enough_ to face the big, scary things in his dreams, and he wants his daddy. Sometimes, Daddy comes in before he goes to bed to check on Haytham. And Haytham always pretends to be sleeping, because then Daddy will climb into bed with him, and hug him, and cuddle with him. Sometimes, Daddy will even fall asleep with him, and then Haytham gets to wake up with Daddy still there.

Haytham waits and waits but Daddy doesn't come. Maybe tonight he won't come at all. Sometimes he doesn't, when he has things to do in the city. Haytham sniffs a little into his blanket, and wishes _really hard_ that his daddy will come. It doesn't work, of course, it just makes him feel sadder.

His head starts to hurt too, a funny kind of hurt that Haytham hasn't felt before. He brings his hands up to his head, and holds it tight, whimpering a little as he curls up more, knees pressed tight to his chest. Everything feels funny (funny _bad_ , not laughing funny). He doesn't feel like he's lying in bed anymore, more like something wooden and stiff (and moving. The ground isn't supposed to move). And it's really hot, and the air feels kind of heavy and wet.

Bad, bad, bad.

Someone puts a hand on his back, and Haytham flinches away.

"What's wrong, lad?" a voice asks. "What are you doing here?"

Haytham opens his eyes at once, rolling over to face the man. "Daddy!" he shouts, and he gets to his feet only so he can jump into daddy's arms. "Daddy, I wished really hard to see you and it worked!"

"What?"

And okay, so maybe Daddy looks funny right now. His face looks different (happier, Haytham thinks, and maybe younger), and he looks like he's playing dress up in his funny clothes, but he still sounds like Daddy, so Haytham knows he is.

He hugs daddy as tight as he can, until Daddy hugs him back. It's not as good a hug as usual, like Daddy doesn't want to touch him too much, and Haytham frowns upward. "You're doing it wrong," he complains.

"Doing what wrong?" Daddy asks.

"Hugging," Haytham says. "Do it better!"

But Daddy lets him go instead, leaving Haytham feeling very alone, standing on the funny moving floor. "Daddy…" Haytham frowns harder. "What's wrong?"

"Listen," Daddy says. He doesn't exactly sound mean, but he doesn't sound nice like usual either. "I don't know what you're doing on my ship—" (And Haytham feels his eyes go big and round, because he never knew Daddy had his own _ship_ ) "But I do know that I _definitely_ don't have a son. So whoever you are, you need to go back to wherever you came from, and—are you crying? Christ, don't—" Daddy looks horrified, which only makes it harder _not_ to cry.

Haytham wipes at his eyes with both hands. Suddenly he wishes he was back at home having bad dreams. He wishes this _was_ a bad dream. When nothing happens—when the funny, moving floor (ship) doesn't go away—Haytham starts to cry louder. Daddy takes a step backward, instead of doing what he _always_ does, which is to make things better. He looks like he doesn't want to be there, like he doesn't want to see Haytham at all. It hurts Haytham in places he didn't even know _could_ be hurt.

Everything he sees looks blurry through his tears, but Haytham still notices when the second man appears out of thin air next to Daddy.

"Desmond," Daddy says, grabbing the man's arm. He sounds relieved. "What do you know about babies?"

"Not a baby!" Haytham whines. Daddy _knows_ he hates being called a baby, he _knows_ it. He always tells Jenny off when she calls Haytham a baby, why's he saying it now?

"Geeze, Edward," Desmond says, and he drops onto his knees in front of Haytham. "What did you say to him?"

"How is this my fault?" Daddy demands. He sounds almost angry, and that's when Haytham really loses it. He's tired, and he's had a bad dream, and then he'd woken up to a Daddy that doesn't like him and that's even worse. This is the worst night ever. Jenny calls it a tantrum when Haytham starts screaming and crying all at the same time, she says only stupid babies have tantrums, but Haytham can't help himself.

Desmond reacts immediately, wrapping his arms around Haytham and holding him tight. He gives good hugs, almost as good as Daddy's (Daddy when he still liked Haytham, not Daddy now. Mean Daddy). Haytham doesn't calm down right away, but eventually he runs out of breath and has to stop screaming. He gulps in air, almost hiccupping, his whole body shaking from the strength of his tears. Desmond is still holding him, rocking him gently from side to side and rubbing at his back.

Daddy is several steps away, arms crossed, very determinedly not paying them any attention. He looks annoyed.

Haytham focuses on Desmond's hug instead. It feels good, and Haytham leans into the touch. Just now he's greedy for the feeling of being hugged and held and wanted.

"Are you okay?" Desmond whispers.

"Owie," Haytham whimpers.

"Where?" Desmond asks, and Haytham touches his chest.

"Inside owie," he says. Something inside him feels like it's breaking, and he doesn't know how to explain any better than that.

"It'll be okay," Desmond promises, and he sounds very, very sure of himself. "I promise."

"Really?"

He nods. Then switches subjects. "You're—I mean… your name is Haytham, right?"

Haytham nods, wiping his dripping nose on the back of his hand. "Did Daddy tell you?"

"Um… not exactly," Desmond says. "It's complicated. I've met you before, but you haven't met me yet."

"Okay," Haytham says. He doesn't really get it, but he doesn't really get why he's on a ship instead of in his bed, either. He rubs at his face again. It keeps getting wet. "Desmond?"

"Yea?"

"Can I hug you back?"

"I'd like that a lot," Desmond says seriously, and then he makes a noise like all the air being forced out of his lungs from Haytham's hug.

"Daddy didn't like it when I hugged him," Haytham whispers to Desmond. "That's why I asked. I thought maybe hugs were bad now."

"No," Desmond says. "And Edward—your dad's just… he hasn't met you yet, okay?"

"Like I haven't met you?"

"Yea," Desmond says. "Yea, exactly."

"When I go home, will he like me again?"

"I'm sure he will."

"Good," Haytham says fiercely. "I don't know what I would do if I couldn't ever hug daddy again."

"Oh God, Haytham," Desmond says, and for some reason he sounds sad. "Hold onto that thought, okay? When you're grown up, try and remember how good hugs are."

"Of course I will," Haytham says. He's still buried in Desmond's arms, slowly squirming his way onto the man's lap. "Hugs are _always_ good."

That just makes Desmond look sadder, and Haytham tries to think of something else to say. "Why are you being so nice?" he asks. "Are we friends, after we've both met each other?"

"Eventually," Desmond says. "Sort of. I think. I'm not actually sure you're real, but—"

That doesn't make any sense (of course he's real), so Haytham changes the subject again. "Do we hug?"

"I wish we would," Desmond says wistfully.

Haytham tries to squeeze him tighter, but he's already holding him as tight as he can. And then suddenly, he's not holding anyone at all. He's back home in his own bed, and the door downstairs thumps quietly as someone comes inside.

Daddy. It has to be.

Haytham jumps off his bed, dragging his blanket with him. It gets all tangled up in his feet, though, so that he falls hard on his knees and skins one of them so that it bleeds a little. Because _of course_ it does—this really is the worst night ever.

Footsteps come rushing up the stairs, and when the door opens it's Daddy standing there. Daddy, in his normal clothes, looking at Haytham the same way he normally does. "Haytham!" he says. Loudly. He winces and drops his voice as he hurries over to Haytham's side. "What are you doing on the floor?"

"Fell out of bed," Haytham says.

"Your knee's bleeding," Daddy says. "I can fix that, you know."

"How?"

He winks at Haytham, eyes glinting warm and gold even in the dark bedroom, and leans down to kiss Haytham's knee. "Best medicine," he promises.

Which is silly. His knee is _still_ bleeding, but… well, the owie inside Haytham's chest is starting to feel better. So maybe it is a good medicine.

"Can I hug you?" Haytham asks, and Daddy answers with a big, happy hug of his own. Haytham clings to him, finally smiling a little. "I had a bad dream," he tells Daddy. "And then a bad… something else."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Maybe later," Haytham says.

"Well d'you want me to stay with you tonight, then?"

"Yes!"

"Alright then," Daddy laughs. And when he lifts Haytham back into bed, he gets in too, pulling Haytham in close to him. Haytham turns around and curls up with his face buried in Daddy's chest, breathing in the safe, familiar smell of him. Daddy wraps him up tight, and when Haytham finally falls asleep, it's with a smile on his face and the reassuring feeling of being cuddled by his favorite person in the whole world.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like it must have been difficult for Desmond to fit Edward and Shay and Aveline into his sad 'all visitors are the bleeding effect' theory, at least at the beginning.

Shay's first experience with Desmond starts like this:

With his back is against the floor, something cold and hard that doesn't feel quite manmade and doesn't feel quite natural, and—

In the dark, pitch black except for something glowing off in the distance, and Shay can't figure out where it's coming from, but that's not his most important problem, and—

With a blade pressed to his neck, and it's sharp enough that Shay can feel a bead or two of blood running along the edge, even though there's not much pressure there, and—

With someone is crouched on top of him, pinning him down, and their weight isn't much but they know all the right places to hold Shay so he can't move, and—

With the stranger's face only inches away from Shay, so that he can feel their breath on his face and see their eyes, angry and glowing in that particular way of people with eagle vision.

That's how it starts.

Shay freezes, because that's the best reaction to have to someone that's trying to kill you, especially when you don't know who that someone is, or why they have a blade on your neck.

"So…" Shay tries to keep his voice casual. "I'll assume you don't know about visiting yet."

The blade against Shay's neck trembles, as if the person wielding it is in the grip of some intense emotion. "Shut up," he says, and his voice quavers as much as his blade. "Just—shut up, about visiting, and visitors, and… whoever you think you are, you're not _real_ , so just—"

For a moment, the man's distraction makes him ease up on the pressure on Shay's neck, and that's all the space Shay needs. In a moment he has forced the man's blade aside, rolling over in the same motion and throwing him a foot or so across the room.

"Shit!" the man curses, and Shay scrambles to his feet, ready to fight back. He strains his eyes and ears, waiting for a clue that his attacker is getting ready for another go. But all he hears, after a pause of maybe thirty or forty five seconds, are sobs.

What is going _on_ here?

"Why can't you just leave?" the stranger asks, in a voice like a whine. "Why can't you all just leave me _alone_?"

"You're the one that had a blade on my neck," Shay reminds him stiffly. "I just came visiting, I couldn't exactly stop myself."

"Visiting," the stranger laughs. It doesn't sound like he's amused, more like he's losing his mind. Because that's reassuring. "Sure. Because it's not enough that I'm hallucinating my ancestors, now I have to start dreaming up people I've never met. Edward. Whoever you are."

"Did you just imply that I'm not real?" Shay demands.

There's no answer, just a groan, and then footsteps coming closer. Shay turns to face them (although he knows by now that no one will be able to see him beyond the person he's actually visiting), and sees a woman with a flashlight stop next to the stranger. "Desmond?" she asks. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." The man—Desmond—glances resentfully at Shay. "I'm fine, Rebecca."

"Was it the bleeding effect?" she insists.

"Yea," Desmond mutters, after a moment's hesitation. He doesn't look angry anymore, just tired and sad and hurt.

Which doesn't mean Shay is alright with being nearly stabbed, of course, but this man is so pathetic, he's having a hard time wanting to stab him in return. He might like to kick him a little.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No!" Desmond shakes his head, turning his back on Rebecca.

"They're just hallucinations," Rebecca says. "You know that, right?"

"Sure, Becca."

She gives him a look of intense pity, and walks reluctantly away. When she's gone, Desmond gives Shay a look that Shay doesn't much like.

"I'm not a hallucination," he says calmly. "For the record."

"Yes you are," Desmond says dully. "You're the third hallucination—the third _visitor_ —" He says this last part scornfully. "I've had in an hour. I can't make it stop, I can't—"

Desmond and his whole world vanish abruptly then, and Shay is left reeling for just a second, until Haytham taps him on the shoulder. "Shay?"

"Sir." He straightens up, trying to look like his mind hasn't just gone traipsing around in time. Haytham knows about visiting, of course, but he's still relatively new to this whole templar thing. He doesn't want to give Haytham the impression he can't keep his mind on the business at hand.

"Where were you?"

Shay shrugs. "With some madman that tried to kill me and then told me I was a hallucination. Twice."

"Ah." Haytham nods knowingly. "Desmond."

"Can't say I like him much," Shay admits. "If he thinks his visitors are hallucinations, why try to kill me?"

"Because he's Desmond," Haytham says, and Shay could swear the grandmaster sounds almost _fond_ , ridiculously enough. "He's generally much more accepting of the fact that he thinks he's going insane, if you're worried he'll try to kill you again."

Shay only shrugs. "We'll see."

But the next time he meets Desmond, they're on the _Morrigan_ , and Desmond is tired and quiet and sad. He looks at Shay, then away again. "Sorry," he says. "If last time for me was last time for you, too."

"You trying to kill me?" Shay asks, sharply.

"Yea."

Shay opens his mouth, anger ready on his tongue, then closes it again. There doesn't seem to be much point. "It's fine," he says instead. "As long as you're not planning to do it again." He sticks out a hand, which Desmond takes after a second or two. He has a grip like rubber, flat and uncertain. "I'm Shay Cormac."

"Desmond Miles." He pulls his hand back, and the two of them sort of stand there awkwardly for a moment. Then Shay gestures to the ship's wheel.

"I should get back to this."

Desmond lets him, and he's so quiet as Shay sails on that he assumes the visit has simply ended. But when it starts to get dark, and Gist offers to take over the wheel for a few hours, Shay sees Desmond has simply relocated to the ship's rail. He's leaning over it, surveying the sky and the sea around them. Shay almost walks past, then pauses and joins Desmond at the railing.

"You really think all this is a hallucination?" he asks, gesturing with one arm to the vastness of the sea before them. The sun is just beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the whole world in warm shades of orange and red. It's early summer, still warm despite the light breeze, and the smell of the sea is all around them.

Desmond takes it all in, then looks back at Shay and nods. "Yea," he says, in a voice of utter hopelessness. "Yea, of course it is."

Shay winces, and stays at the railing next to Desmond until the other man's visiting time runs out, and he vanishes.


	30. Chapter 30

Altair's visitors are starting to grow on him, just a bit. Not that he would ever admit it, to any of them, but… well, one or two of them aren't too bad. Ezio can be strange and impulsive, but he also has an illogical respect for Altair that tempers some of his oddities a little. Aveline is… outspoken (especially for a woman, although Altair has learned he is not supposed to say this to her), but not unpleasant. Desmond is…

Well, Desmond is Desmond. He—in all honesty, he makes Altair nervous. Initially, Altair had distrusted him because he hadn't understood visiting. He still doesn't, but he at least he knows now that it's not exactly Desmond's fault. Still, the mistakes of their first few visits still linger in the air between them, and it doesn't help that Desmond is clearly insane. He's jumpy and nervous in their every interaction, and from what the others have said, Altair is not the only one Desmond has accused of being imaginary.

And Altair seems to have the worst luck in his timing when he visits Desmond. Today, for example, he is about to jump at a suspicious guard when he finds himself suddenly in Desmond's time. He is already midleap as the world changes around him, and it is too late to stop by the time he realizes he is aiming his blade at Desmond rather than his original target.

They fall together onto the stone floor, Altair's blade to Desmond's neck, and Altair (still struggling somewhat to absorb their surroundings) catches sight of a statue of himself just behind them. Monteriggioni, then? But isn't that Ezio's home, not Desmond's?

He turns his attention back to Desmond, whose eyes are two wide circles, staring up at him in obvious surprise. "What—I didn't…" He shakes his head, then winces and stops as the motion draws a thin line of blood across his neck. Altair pulls back at once, and Desmond scrambles away from him, one hand pressed to his throat and the other wrapped around his body defensively. "I thought we were past this," he says softly, and he sounds hurt.

"It was an accident," Altair protests. "I didn't mean to—"

"Sure," Desmond whispers. He doesn't look like he believes Altair. "I've lived your life. I don't think you've ever _accidentally_ almost killed someone."

"Malik, once or twice," Altair says, before he can stop himself. "When we were novices. And afterward."

Desmond doesn't look amused. He still looks scared, and Altair makes a conscious effort to put him more at ease, settling himself and opening his posture as much as he is capable of. "Desmond," he says stiffly. "We got off on the wrong foot, and I… well, I understand that you think I'm a figment of your imagination, but I hope you'll accept my apology regardless."

"I—I don't know..."

He is still learning to apologize. Malik has taken to giving Altair what he calls 'remedial lessons,' but which seem more like an excuse to point out everything Altair has ever done wrong, and then argue with him until Altair gives up and manages some kind of sorry. He's very bad at it still, and Desmond's reluctance to _accept_ his apology isn't making this any easier.

"Look, Desmond," he says. "What does it matter to you if I'm real or not? I am, for the record. But even if I weren't, why would you want hallucinations that are mad at you rather than ones you can get along with?"

"You just stabbed me!" Desmond protests.

"I'm trying to apologize for that," Altair sighs. "I was about to take out a guard when this visit started. I wasn't expecting you to suddenly be in front of me."

"You didn't…" Desmond takes his hand away from his neck, checks it to make sure he's not still bleeding (he's not—the cut isn't deep). "You really didn't mean to almost kill me?"

"Not recently," Altair confirms. "I'm still wrapping my head around all this visiting, but I've realized that I made a mistake in threatening your life when we first met. I would not purposefully do it again now."

"I guess…" Desmond shifts uncomfortably, without getting any closer to Altair. "It wouldn't hurt to… to be friends. Even though you are just my imagination." And Altair thinks he almost sounds wistful as he says it.

Altair moves experimentally closer, and Desmond allows it. So, at the very least they're no longer enemies. Which just leaves the question of how to become friends. Desmond glances over at him, and to Altair's surprise, speaks. It feels like a real olive branch. "Maybe sometime you can give me some help on fighting," he says. "I'm not that great with my blades yet, even with the bleeding effect."

"Of course," Altair says, relieved that the conversation has moved onto a topic he knows something about, which is to say, killing things. "We can start now, if you like—"

But even as Desmond nods and the two of them get to their feet, the visit ends and Altair is thrust back into his own time, into the face of a very surprised guard who opens his mouth to shout a warning to the others before Altair can stop him. Ah well. At least he's making progress with Desmond, and the next time he visits, maybe things will go better.

-//-

Back in Monteriggioni, several hundred years after Altair's (brief) struggle with the guard, Desmond stands with his back to the wall, in the shadow of the statue of his ancestor. One hand is back on his neck, feeling the fresh scratch there. His eyes rest glumly on the hidden blade on his other arm, examining the smear of blood across the edge.

He is shivering, violently—these hallucinations have come close to killing him before, but… this is the first time one of his visitors has actually harmed him. But of course Altair hadn't been there. Shaun and Rebecca and Lucy are upstairs somewhere, so Desmond is alone in the hidden basement. He had been alone, even when he imagined Altair there.

It must have been his own blade against his neck, when he imagined Altair almost killing him. And the thought of that terrifies him, that he could come so close to killing himself and not even be aware of it. Maybe next time he won't stop. Maybe he'll end up like subject sixteen.

And yet…

For all that, he can't stop thinking about Altair's point. That even if Desmond's visitors _are_ all hallucinations, why shouldn't he make friends with him? They might try to kill him less (which means Desmond will spend less time threatening his own life with his hidden blade).

And anyway. Desmond is growing desperate for _any_ kind of friend, even the imaginary kind.

He unstraps his hidden blade, and goes to clean the blood from the blade.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This follows right after the last chapter, from Desmond's perspective

"Alright," Ezio says, leaning back against one of Monteriggioni's outer walls and crossing his arms. "Obviously _something_ is wrong with you, Desmond. What is it?"

"What?" Desmond shakes his head, confused. "I'm fine. I'm _good_."

"And that's what's wrong!" Ezio insists. He's known Desmond less than a year, and rather… sporadically, in the fashion of all visitors, but this is the point when Desmond is supposed to start whining about how Ezio is clearly just a figment of his own imagination, and blah, blah, blah whatever. "You are supposed to be upset."

"I'm tired of being upset," Desmond says calmly. "I had this… conversation with Altair a couple of days ago."

"Conversation?" Ezio asks, suspiciously. There's something in the way Desmond says the word that makes him think there might have been more to it.

"Well, he sort of accidentally stabbed me in the neck a little."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes, but—"

"Are you _okay_?"

"Fine," Desmond says. He looks pleased that Ezio has asked. "But he sort of made me think. About how… okay look. You're a hallucination, we both know that."

"I'm not, Desmond," Ezio says, rolling his eyes. Desmond ignores him.

"But since I can't _stop_ myself from seeing things," he goes on. "I might as well… I mean, we can be friends, right?"

"Even though you think I'm not real?"

"Well, yea." He grins, a little awkwardly, and Ezio takes a second to study the older man, trying to figure out how to respond to this. A year ago, Ezio hadn't known anything about visitors. He wouldn't have had to deal with problems like whether or not he should make friends with someone that keeps insisting he isn't real.

"You're crazy, Desmond," Ezio says. "You know that, right?" 

He flinches, but nods. "I wouldn't think I'm standing in fifteenth century Italy right now if I were sane."

Ezio sighs, and shrugs his shoulders dramatically. "Well, why not?" he says at last. Desmond is odd and difficult to get along with, but Ezio is stuck in Monteriggioni with no one but his sister and his uncle to talk to, and if Desmond wants to be friends—why not?

"Thanks," Desmond says, actually smiling. "And—"

" _Ezio!"_

"Shit," Ezio curses, and Desmond laughs at the obvious look of panic on his face. "It's not funny, Desmond!"

"That's your sister, right?" Desmond asks."Yes! And do you hear how mad she sounds?"

Desmond shrugs. "What's she going to do to you?"

"Clearly you don't have any sisters," Ezio grumbles. He grabs at Desmond's arm (because visitors can't go too far from each other) and drags him away. "Come on!"

"Where are we going?"

Ezio makes a panicked noise and leads Desmond up the side of a nearby building. Desmond peppers Ezio with questions as they climb, but Ezio can't exactly _answer_ , because while Claudia can't hear Desmond, she's more than capable of hearing Ezio. He waits until they're all the way at the top of the building, crouched on the lip of the roof, before answering. "I… well, you see, her birthday was yesterday, and Uncle Mario had this dinner for her. He had all her favorite foods made, and ordered her some clothes from…" he tries to remember the intricacies of women's clothing, and fails. "I don't know. Somewhere that makes good clothes. It was a great evening, and I thought, hey, why don't I help?"

"What did you do?"

"I just wanted her to unwind a little!" Ezio protests. "It's been a hard year for her too, you know? Since father, and—well, it's been hard. I thought maybe she'd want the chance to have some fun for once. So… I spiked her drink. Just a little. And I thought she would be able to handle her alcohol!"

Desmond is laughing at Ezio before he even gets the words out. "What happened?"

"Ezio!" Claudia shouts from the street. She sounds like she's getting closer, so Ezio drops his voice.

"Mostly she just sang some dirty songs and then talked my ear off," Ezio says, rolling his eyes. Some really very creative songs, actually. Ezio had ended up taking notes. "But apparently she woke up this morning and couldn't remember it, so now she's convinced she did something awful. And she's been following me around all day and shouting, and—hey, Desmond! Give me my body back!"

But Desmond ignores him, climbing quickly back down to street level and actually calling out to Claudia. Ezio follows, invisible, trying and failing to regain control of his own body. Still—at least Desmond is the one that feels it when Claudia slaps him, even if Ezio's the one that's going to be walking around with a handprint on his face for the next few days.

Claudia curses at him for almost a full minute, and then starts off on what promises to be a lengthy tirade. Ezio recognizes the signs (the hands on the hips, the tomato red color of her face, the dramatically flaring nostrils), but then Desmond actually _interrupts her_.

"Claudia," he says, in Ezio's voice.

"What?" she snaps.

"Nothing terrible happened last night." He glances at Ezio, as if for confirmation, but Ezio is backing hastily as far away as he can get. Just because Claudia can't see, hear, or touch him just now, that doesn't mean he's necessarily safe. "Claudia, I promise. I just wanted you to have a good birthday."

"You have a funny way of showing it," she snaps. "I can't believe you did that!"

"Why?" Desmond asks. "Because you had such an awful time last night?"

"I—" she looks briefly confused. "Well, no, but…"

"I realize—" And Desmond looks significantly over Claudia's shoulder, at Ezio. "That it is very _immature_ and _irresponsible_ to get you drunk last night."

"Yes it was," Claudia sniffs.

"But it will never happen again." He gives Ezio another look, and Ezio nods emphatically. "I promise," Desmond adds, and Claudia looks like she's actually calming down.

"Why did you do it?" she asks, with only a trace of her previous anger. And Desmond looks up at Ezio, and just like that, he gives Ezio his body back. Ezio opens and closes his mouth several times, and then says, "Because I haven't seen you smile for over a year. I just wanted to see you happy again."

"Really?" Claudia asks. "Because—because there are less stupid ways to cheer me up."

"I know."

"Then again, you're a very stupid older brother."

"Claudia!"

She laughs at him, and then hugs him. Briefly. "Thanks for trying, anyway."

He hugs her back, unbelievably grateful to hear her laugh, even at him. "Maybe I can try again later?" he asks. "We can do something together."

"Sure," she says. "I'll look forward to it." She squeezes his arm and looks much more cheerful when she heads back to the house.

Ezio turns immediately back to Desmond. "You are a miracle worker, my friend," he says.

"What?"

"You are godlike," Ezio goes on. "You are my personal hero, my—"

"Ezio!" Desmond is laughing, and Ezio thinks vaguely that this must be a day for laughing—it's been ages since he's heard Claudia that cheerful, and he's never seen Desmond without a frown on his face. "What did I do that's so great?"

"You made my sister happy," Ezio says. _"Thank you."_

"I just told her what you told me," Desmond protests. "And you said all the important things."

"Still. Thank you."

Desmond shrugs, still smiling, and doesn't quite look at him. "What are friends for?"

"Well, in my experience—" Ezio slings an arm over Desmond's shoulder. "Friends are for having fun with, and making stupid decisions, and then running away from the guards."

"God!" Desmond protests. "What kind of friends do you have?"

Ezio ignores him. "Come on," he says. "Let me show you around."

"I've seen it all in the animus—"

"Yes, alright," Ezio says. He still isn't entirely sure he knows what an animus is. "But I'm a great tour guide, you just wait."

They spend the rest of Desmond's visit wandering around Monteriggioni, taking in the sights. Not that there are all that many sights to take in—it's still badly in need of repairs, and Uncle Mario had just recently started talking about hiring an architect to remodel. Still, there's plenty to talk about, and by the time Desmond vanishes back to his own time, Ezio is pretty sure that they really are friends.

-//-

"Hey."

Desmond looks up from his breakfast to find Shaun frowning at him. "Hey, what?" he asks.

"You've been here a week, and this is the first time I've seen you look happy," Shaun says. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Desmond says.

"Then why are you _smiling_?"

Desmond shrugs. He's not in the mood to let Shaun bother him today. Because yes, he's about to climb back in the animus and go through yet another full day of Ezio's memories. And yes, accepting his hallucinations as friends probably means he's losing his mind. But friends are friends. And now Desmond has one.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suggest reading Visitations Chapter 57 (archiveofourown.org/works/4572612/chapters/11826095) before this chapter.

If Aveline does not leave New York soon, she will never arrive at the homestead in time to spend Christmas with Connor and Shay and the children. It has been months already since she's seen them, and the business that took her to the city in the first place is long since concluded. The assassin business, in any case—Aveline still has a visitor related mystery to clear up before she will feel comfortable leaving. So today, like every day for the past two weeks, Aveline heads deeper into the city, instead of out and away and back to her family.

She arrives at the cemetery early and settles herself on a stone bench to wait. From here, she has a clear view of the grave, but is mostly hidden herself from anyone that might approach. For nearly an hour, she sits in bored silence, watching and waiting as absolutely nothing happens. This is not the first time she has come here, not even close, but it may have to be the last if she wants to get out of the city in time to see her family for the holiday. Aveline is determined not to leave until she finds what she has come here for.

The light cough at her side is Aveline's first sign that someone has come visiting. She turns and sighs at the sight of Haytham looking vaguely uncomfortable. "Aveline," he says, after a short pause. "Why are you visiting my grave?"

"Perhaps I'm feeling sentimental," she says, turning away from him. This is an older version of the man, very near the end of his life if Aveline's guess is right, maybe only a month or two away from being laid to rest in the grave she's so intently watching. The thought makes her vaguely uncomfortable.

"Hmm." He eyes her tense posture, and the out of the way place where she has chosen to sit, and raises an eyebrow. "Aveline?"

"Yes?"

"As much as I would like to believe you're here for me," Haytham says. "Something tells me this isn't the case. Why are you really here?"

Aveline sighs and stands, and Haytham rises as well to walk with her to the gravestone. "This is what's bothering me," Aveline explains, gesturing to the grave. "It's been well cared for. The grass is cut in the summer, and in the spring there are flowers planted in the dirt. The weeds are always kept under control, and even in winter, I find bunches of flowers left behind."

"Well that's reassuring to hear," Haytham says. "I don't understand the problem."

"The problem is that I have no idea who's doing all that!" Aveline says. "I first noticed it about eighteen months ago, and I assumed it was either Shay or Connor. But both of them have been at the homestead for weeks, and the flowers keep coming."

"Perhaps one of them paid someone to keep the grave," Haytham says thoughtfully. He crouches over his own headstone, studying it far too intently for Aveline's tastes. It's a bit disconcerting, really, to see him standing there on his own grave, mere feet above… well, _himself_ , as if there were nothing wrong with that. Maybe that's where Connor gets his morbid streak from.

"I considered that," Aveline agrees. "But someone that's merely being paid wouldn't put this much care into it. Look, they've even cleaned the stone off, and that must have taken ages after the weather we've had here the past few days. I was here on Tuesday, and it was covered in mud. Then yesterday—clean."

Haytham laughs, and as usual it doesn't exactly sound like there's anything funny. "You've been to visit me three days in a row? I'm touched."

She almost denies it, but honestly, he might have some idea of who is coming to take care of his grave, and Aveline is at her wit's end, trying to figure out who it might be. "I've been here every day for the past two weeks," she admits. "At first I just stopped by because I was curious. But I never saw the person taking care of the grave and… ah!" she lets out a frustrated noise of complaint. "It shouldn't bother me so much, but it does."

Haytham looks oddly pleased as he stands up, brushing dirt from his clothes. For a moment they just stand there, contemplating the grave, and then he suddenly stumbles, like someone has pushed him out of the way, and Aveline turns to see that someone new is standing there. She stares at him, startled, sure for a moment that she is being visited by a much younger Connor.

"Excuse me," he says, and his voice sounds nothing like Connor's. And when Aveline looks again, she sees that this boy (maybe fifteen years old, certainly not yet out of his teens) is paler than Connor is, a little shorter, a little leaner. So, not her friend. She should have known that anyway, from the way he'd shoved Haytham out of the way like he couldn't even see him. He's only visiting, after all.

Still, there is something in his face that reminds Aveline unavoidably of Connor. She glances past him at Haytham, unable to keep the confusion off her face, and sees him gesture at the bunch of flowers the boy is holding clutched in one hand. He looks just as surprised as she feels.

"I'm sorry," Aveline says, when she realizes the silence between her and the boy has stretched on for far too long. "Am I in your way?"

"I actually just wondered—" he gestures with one hand to Haytham's grave. "Did you know the man buried here? Did you come here to visit him?"

Aveline very nearly tells him that really, Haytham is here visiting her, but it's not like he would get the joke. "Yes," she says instead. "I knew him quite well."

"Really?" The boy looks at her eagerly, and after pausing to carefully place the flowers on the grave, he turns back to Aveline. "Would you mind—can you tell me about him?"

"I suppose," Aveline says cautiously. "But why do you want to know? You can't even have been born yet when Haytham died."

"No," the boy agrees. "But I think he might be my grandfather."

"What?" Aveline asks, in near perfect unison with Haytham.

"It's complicated," the boy admits. "Do you mind if we go somewhere warmer to talk?"

Aveline is tired of standing around in the cold, and agrees readily enough. They find a pub nearby (it has to be nearby, because Haytham is in her ear the whole time, complaining that she needs to hurry up and have this conversation before his visit ends), and settle in to talk.

"My mother left my father when I was very young," the boy says. "There was an accident, and they had a fight, and she took me and we left to stay with her parents in Boston. A few months after that, she told me she'd just gotten word that father had died."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Aveline says, when he pauses.

"I don't really remember him," the boy admits. "And it was a long time ago. But then mother sent me here to apprentice with her brother." He scowls. "He's a shoemaker, it's _very_ dull. But, ah—one day, I was in the churchyard, with, um…" he flushes. "With this girl, I, ah… well, I don't get to see her as often as I would like."

"Don't worry," Aveline says with a grin. "I understand completely—you have to take your chances when you can."

Haytham groans aloud.

"Well we met there, in the graveyard," he goes on. "So nobody would see. And I saw the name Kenway, on one of the stones. Mother told me once that my father would have had that last name, except I guess he didn't want to, for some reason." He smiles, sheepishly. "So I looked at the name, and the dates, and I thought maybe this Haytham Kenway was my grandfather. I don't know. Maybe he's not, it _could_ be a coincidence. But I don't know anyone on my father's side of the family, and I wanted to believe…"

He puts his hands on the table, and Aveline bites back a curse when she sees that one of his fingers is missing. No way. No _way_ has he just stumbled into her path like this-- Connor will be overjoyed, if Aveline has guessed right. "What's your name?" she asks.

"Matthew."

"And your mother," Aveline goes on quickly. "Is her name Emily?"

The wide eyed look of surprise that he gives her is all the confirmation Aveline needs. "How did you know?" he asks.

So she  _has_ guessed right.

"Because not only did I know your grandfather," Aveline says. "I also know your father—in fact, my family is spending Christmas with him."

"He's _alive_?"

"Very much so," Aveline says. "I don't know why your mother told you he was dead, but, ah…" she trails off, thinking of the circumstances under which Emily had left the homestead. She'd just found out Connor was an assassin, that he had killed his own father, that he a whole collection of dangerous weapons in his basement (one of which had just cut off her four year old son's finger). On second thought, she can understand completely why Emily would want to cut all ties. Poor woman.

"Can I come with you?" Matthew asks eagerly, leaning across the table. "Please?"

"What about your uncle?" Aveline asks. "Won't he worry about you?"

Matthew shrugs. "I don't know, maybe? But I can't stay here and think about _shoes_ , not when I could be meeting my father!"

"Let the boy come with you," Haytham says softly. "Give Connor a chance to do right by his son."

Aveline glances at him, nods a fraction, then looks over at Matthew. "Alright," she agrees. "You can come—"

"Thank you!" Matthew cries, and he leans across the table to hug her. Aveline barely has time to react before she has suddenly been forced from her body as Haytham takes her place. He hugs Matthew back (awkwardly, in the manner of all Kenway hugs—they are either stiff, as Haytham's and Connor's are, or far too touchy, in Edward's case. At least Matthew doesn't seem to have inherited that particular trait, not if his enthusiasm is anything to go by). Aveline lets Haytham have this moment without protest—there's no telling if he will ever get to meet his grandson again.

"There's something you should know," Haytham says in Aveline's voice, once he and Matthew have finished. "Your grandfather would have really appreciated you looking after his grave all this time. It... would mean a lot to him."

Matthew flushes, and Haytham surrenders Aveline's body back to her. "Come on," she says, tugging Matthew to his feet. "If we don't waste any more time, we can get a few miles traveled before dark."

-//-

Connor had spent most of the day before Christmas (not his favorite holiday, and one he wouldn't even celebrate if Aveline and Shay didn't have four young children in love with the concept) at work, helping the people of the homestead with the kind of problems that tend to crop up from time to time. He doesn't get home until after dark, and is pleased to see that Aveline has finally arrived. She looks tired from her travel, but absolutely beams at him as he comes inside. Shay is at her side, as always, smiling as well.

"Connor!" Aveline calls, jumping to her feet as soon as he walks in. "I brought you a Christmas present."

"Aveline," Connor sighs. "I keep telling you, you don't need to get me anything—"

"Which is really a waste of effort," Shay interjects. "Since we all know full well she's going to anyway."

"Yes," Aveline says. "Of course. But trust me, Connor—" And she looks _so excited_ , positively beaming at him. "You're going to want this one."

She grabs at his arm and leads him toward the kitchen, and Connor allows himself to be led. The room is warmer than the rest of the house, and so he has not surprised to find his two aunts there. Neither Jenny nor Jacob would ever admit that they are getting older, but Connor knows that they are at the age to appreciate the warmth. Unusually, however, they are not alone—two of Aveline and Shay's children, Rory and Jeanne, are there as well, and so is a slightly older boy Connor doesn't recognize.

They are in the middle of a spirited conversation of some kind, and Connor wonders absently what the five of them could all have in common to inspire this kind of excited talk, like old friends meeting up after a long time apart, but then Aveline manages to derail his entire train of thought with one word.

"Matthew!" she calls, and the unknown boy looks up at her. And then at Connor. And Connor recognizes him in one breathless, impossible moment.

He clutches at Aveline's arm to keep from falling over, and just _stares_ at Matthew. At his son. It has been eleven years since Emily took him away, and Connor has long since stopped believing he would ever see him again. But here he is, and Connor knows him at once.

"Go," Aveline whispers, and she gives Connor a little push at the same moment that Jacob _shoves_ Matthew, and the two of them more or less crash into each other. For a moment, Connor can only stare, and then he reaches out, and touches Matthew's face, just to prove he's really there.

"Father?" Matthew asks, his voice shaking, and Connor hugs him. Hard. As hard as he can, as if he can somehow make up for everything he's missed.

"Welcome home," he whispers, and Matthew's smile is the best thing he's ever seen.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, I didn't think Connor would be this bad with emotions.
> 
> ALTHOUGH I HAVE NO IDEA WHY I WOULD HAVE EXPECTED ANYTHING ELSE

Edward is tired. He's tired, and cold, and hungry, and lonely for home. Lonely, more than anything else. It's funny, except Edward isn't laughing at all, because once upon a time he'd had no home but the sea and his _Jackdaw_. Every new sunrise had brought him something new to see, and it was all he'd wanted in the world.

It had never felt like he was running away from anything, not until Jenny and Tessa and Haytham. Now that he has them waiting for him at home, the whole rest of the world seems flat and uninteresting. Even a weekend's trip like this one is enough to leave him feeling off balance and empty.

And now, finally, he's nearly home. Edward speeds up as the gates of his own house come into view, ignoring the snow that crunches underfoot with every step. He is chilled through to the bone already, he doesn't care how much wetter he gets.

"Father!" Jenny calls, as Edward comes inside. She's pink faced and annoyed, a sure sign that her baby brother has been bothering her, and Edward grins a little, while he's pretty sure Jenny isn't looking. "Father, you won't  _believe_ what Haytham did while you were gone--"

And then suddenly Edward is in Connor's home, standing in front of a roaring fire. It's a beautiful feeling, to go from frozen solid to abruptly thawing, and Edward moans gratefully before sinking into the chair closest to the hearth. For just a second, he thinks of Jenny, but she'll still be there when he comes back, and it's warm in here.

Only then, when his fingers and toes start to thaw out a little, does Edward look around for whoever he's here visiting. Connor, Aveline, and Shay are all there, sitting around the kitchen's table, so intent on their conversation that they don't seem to have noticed Edward's abrupt appearance. This is obviously unacceptable, so Edward sort of shuffles sideways, trying to get closer to the rest of them without abandoning the fire completely.

Shay looks up and notices him first, and he nudges Aveline. Connor looks up as well, a deep frown etched across his face. Well, no surprise there. Edward has wasted an untold number of afternoons trying in vain to convince his grandson to just try _smiling_ a little, maybe having some fun once in a while.

"So," Edward says, when he realizes they're not going to continue their conversation while he's there. "Anything interesting going on?"

Aveline opens her mouth and Connor says "No" before she can get a word out.

"Oh," Edward says, his curiosity now firmly aroused. "Really?"

The three of them share a complicated look, and then Connor says no again, which pretty much convinces Edward that the answer is _yes_. Well, clearly he has to figure out what it is before his visit ends. Before he can so much as open his mouth, however, two children come racing into the kitchen, both shouting at once and at the top of their lungs. The younger one, a girl about five or six, goes straight for Shay.

"Papa!" she complains, stomping her foot on the ground. "Rory hit me!"

"He hit you?" Shay asks, obviously startled as he lifts his daughter into his lap.

"Did not!" the boy objects. He looks at his father and sister, visibly decides his chances there aren't great, and turns to Aveline instead. "Mama, Jeanne's lying!"

"He hit me right here," Jeanne protests, pointing to her upper arm. When Shay doesn't look entirely convinced, she sniffs dramatically like she's going to start crying.

"Rory?" Aveline sighs, fixing her gaze on him. Rory stands firm for about five seconds, then caves in.

"Fine," he says. "But I only hit her because she hit me first!"

He points at his eye, which is starting to darken into an impressive black eye. Edward nods appreciatively. "That's going to be a real shiner," he says, despite knowing Rory won't be able to hear him. Connor does, though, and shoots him a disapproving look.

"Where's Phillipe?" Shay asks. "He's supposed to be watching you while we talk with Connor."

"He's reading," Rory explains, at the same time that Jeanne says, "He's being _boring_ again!"

Edward starts laughing, and Connor not so subtly steps on his foot under the table.

"Matthew was watching us," Rory adds, and Edward notices the way all three of his visitors immediately look sideways at him. So… Matthew, whoever he is, is what they're not telling him?

"Who's Matthew?" he asks loudly, just to see their reactions, and… _yeeeeeep_ , there it is, that little flinch of 'let's not tell Edward anything, he'll just mess it up.' Which isn't really fair, he's not _that guy_ anymore. He's grown up, he's taking his responsibilities as an assassin and a father as seriously as he can, he can be trusted with things like this! Whatever 'things like this' are.

It's very difficult, sometimes, getting his visitors to trust him. Of course, maybe that's unavoidable when they keep meeting each other out of order. How is he supposed to convince anyone he's (sort of) matured when they're constantly faced with who he used to be? There are not a lot of times in Edward's life that he would want to trade away

"Where's Matthew now?"  Shay asks, just as a teenager with Connor's face comes running into the room. Edward looks at him, then at Connor, then back at the kid. And he thinks—wait a second, hadn't Connor once had a son called Matthew? Edward had only met the kid once, if 'met' is even the right word, when he'd only been visiting Connor at the time. He hadn't even gotten to hold his great-grandson.

"Connor!" Edward hisses, although there's no reason to whisper. Matthew is in the middle of apologizing to Aveline and Shay for letting their kids beat each other up, and since he's not a visitor, he wouldn't be able to hear anyway. "Connor, that's your son, isn't it?"

Connor glances sideways at him, and although he doesn't say anything, the look in his eyes is as firm a yes as Edward has ever heard.

"Connor…" Edward breathes, and he doesn't give his grandson a chance to protest before hugging him. "Congratulations, I am so, _so_ happy for you."

Connor flushes happily and can't quite fight back a grin, although he's obviously trying. Edward wants so badly to know the full story, he wants to ask a million questions and possibly buy Connor a drink. But he knows Connor won't say a word as long as there are non-visitors in the room, so he just stands there, feeling like he's about to burst with the need to know.

Connor looks at him, and abruptly nods. He slips out of the room, and Edward follows immediately. "What happened?" he demands, as soon as he figures they're probably out of earshot. "I thought your wife took your son away when he was a child."

"She did," Connor agrees. " _He_ decided to come back."

"What?" Edward settles himself, leaning against the wall as comfortably as he can. "Tell me everything."

"Aveline brought him back," Connor says, settling as well, against the wall on the other side of the hallway. His eyes are shining with some emotion Edward has never seen in him before, love and hope and genuine joy all mixed up beautifully together. He looks… complete, for the first time in Edward's memory. Like he's just been waiting his whole life, or at least since his mother died, for family. And Edward wishes Connor could have found that with himself, or Haytham, or _any_ of their visitors, really, but it's impossible to begrudge him his son. Edward very much wants to hug him again, and restrains himself only because he knows Connor wouldn't appreciate it.

"Was she looking for him?" he asks instead.

"No," Connor says. "They just… stumbled on each other, and he asked if he could come back with her. That first day, when I walked into the kitchen and saw him there, I just thought _this can't be real_. I still can't really believe he's here, that he _wants_ to be here. And Edward, he—this morning, he asked me if he could stay."

"But—Connor, that's great!"

And suddenly, all the happiness rushes away from Connor's face, like water rushing down a drain. His eyes, which had so briefly been lit up with a father's love, go cold and empty again. "Not really," he says. "Emily told Matthew that I was dead after she took him away. Obviously she doesn't want Matthew here, and if I let him stay, he will be burning bridges with her." He looks sadly over at Edward. "That's what I was talking about with Aveline and Shay when you came in." He looks down and whispers the next words to the floor. "I'm going to tell him to go back to his family."

"Do you like being miserable that much?" Edward demands. "Are you so afraid to be happy? Connor! You're his father! You _are_ his family!"

"I can't ask him to leave his mother—"

"You're not asking him to do anything!" Edward protests. "He's asking you, he wants you!"

"I can't."

"Connor!" Edward doesn't want to hug him anymore, he wants to grab his grandson by the shoulders and shake him until he manages to knock some sense into his thick, stubborn head.

Connor makes a face. "If I let Matthew stay, he might lose more than a finger."

Edward crosses his arms and frowns at Connor. "If you make him leave, he _will_ lose his father."

"I don't want to have to do this!" Connor protests. "If it was just thinking about me, of course I would let him stay. But I have to think about what's best for him, and for Emily."

"Connor--"

There are footsteps suddenly, coming toward them, and Connor stiffens, turning toward the sound. "Matthew." 

"Were you talking to someone?" he asks uncertainly. "I thought I heard voices."

"I was thinking aloud," Connor lies.

"I was thinking too," Matthew says, jolting Edward out of his own thoughts. "I know you said you weren't sure if I would be able to stay, and I don't want to rush you—" his words blur together in his rush to get them out, and Edward feels a pang of sympathy for this boy whose father is about to say he doesn't want him. "But I really like this place," Matthew goes on. "I don't remember too much from before mom left with me, but… I don't know. Being here just feels like coming home, and I really want to stay. With you."

Edward shakes his head at Connor. "Don't do this," he says. "Don't send him away."

"I can't take you from your mother," Connor says softly, slowly, as if every word is being slowly dragged out of him. "I'm… I'm sorry, but you have to leave."

Matthew looks down at the ground, and takes a deep breath. "Alright," he says at last. His voice, his whole body is shaking. "If—"

"No!"

All three of them, Matthew, Connor, and Edward, turn to look as Rory and Jeanne come running down the hallway. Jeanne is the one that had shouted, but Rory doesn't look any less upset. Jeanne reaches up and grabs Matthew's hand, and frowns hard at Connor. There's something of Shay in her face, the same determination to stick up for what's important.

"Why are you making him leave?" Rory asks. "Matthew's nice."

"It's complicated," Connor says. His voice is stiff. "You'll understand when you're older."

" _I'm_ older," Edward interjects. "And _I_ don't understand."

"Uncle Connor," Jeanne whines. "Matthew is really nice. And you're his papa!"

"That means you have to love him," Rory adds helpfully. "It's the rules."

"Thanks, you guys," Matthew says quietly. He squeezes Jeanne's hand, and pats Rory on the head. "I'll come visit you some time, alright? But right now, I can't stay." He straightens up and turns back to Connor. "I'll just grab my things and go. I'm… really sorry I bothered you." He hurries away upstairs, his face bright red and his eyes wet.

No.

No, this isn't right, and the stupidity of Connor sending his son away now makes Edward angry. He steps closer to Connor and hits him. "You're an idiot!" he shouts, ignoring the gasps of confused surprise from the other three people in the hall, who have just seen Connor apparently punch himself (Jeanne starts crying, and both her parents come hurrying out to see what's wrong). "He is your son! And we all know Haytham didn't set the best example for you, but if you—if you _ever_ wanted him in your life, if you ever missed him, or loved him at all, just try to imagine that Matthew's feeling that right now. Except even more, because somehow it looks like he's managed to avoid ending up with father issues." He pauses, just for a second. "Which is actually really impressive, for a Kenway!"

They're all just staring at Connor now. Well—apart from Jeanne, who is still crying. And into this silence, Edward says, "And you _want_ him here, Connor. You want him."

Connor bites his lip. Shakes his head. Shakes. But he doesn't say anything until Matthew has gathered his things and come back downstairs. The boy is already out the door when Connor gives a strangled cry and practically lunges after him. Edward, as a visitor, has no choice but to follow, and it's a real challenge to keep up with Connor as he runs after his son.

"I'm sorry," Connor says. "Matthew, I—I'm so sorry. I have no idea what I'm doing. I don't know how to be a father. I'm so terrified that I'm going to hurt you." He glances at Matthew's missing finger, and visibly forces himself to look away. "Again."

"It's okay," Matthew says, looking surprised and abruptly hopeful. "I've never had a father before. We can figure it out together."

"It won't be easy," Connor says. "I'm going to keep making big, horrible mistakes." He glances sideways at Edward. "I have been reliably informed that I am an idiot."

"No you're not," Matthew says. He takes an uncertain step toward Connor, and then another. "You're my _dad_."

Connor looks at him for a long moment, then reaches out and wraps his arm around Matthew's shoulders, pulling him in close. "Stay," he says. "We'll figure out what to tell Emily later."

Shay comes hurrying down from the house then, and stops when he comes to Edward. "So?" he says. "Connor and Matthew, are they okay?"

"I think so," Edward says, as the two of them start walking back toward the house. "But I mean, who knows, with this family?"

His visit starts to end then, and Edward glances over his shoulder. The last thing he sees before returning to his own time is Connor smiling down at Matthew. And Edward clutches at Shay, in the last moments he has here in this visit. "You're his friend, Shay," he says. "I know you are, so please, _please_ , don't let him mess this up."

"I won't," Shay promises. And then Edward is back in his own home, looking into Jenny's face, and he can't keep himself from hugging her as hard as he can.

"Father!" she protests, laughing.

"I love you Jenny," he says. "You do know that, right?"

"Of course," Jenny says. "Of course I do, dad."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also apologize for the length. This ended up so much longer than I planned, but apparently I am very invested in Connor and Matthew's relationship.


	34. Chapter 34

Haytham's first visit all on his own comes when he's seven months old. He's too young to remember it, of course, too young even to really understand that it's a big deal. Edward simply walks into his son's room one morning, and finds him lying in bed with another baby. They're staring at one another through wide eyes, cooing and babbling at each other in nonsensical baby terms.

Edward pauses in the room's doorway, an unexpected feeling of pride tightening his chest. Up until now, Haytham has only had visitors with his father around (or at least… Edward assumes he hasn't—technically he has no way to know what's going on with Haytham when he's not around), but now it's like he's starting to grow up. Looking into the room now, Edward feels the same, strange pride in his chest as he had at Haytham's first smile, his first time holding his own head up, his first anything else.

He thinks Haytham's visitor must be Altair. It's sort of a guess, based on the baby's color and the way he's dressed, but Edward feels pretty confident that he's right. He steps forward, distracting the boys from their (apparently engrossing) game of making faces at each other. Both babies look up at him, and while Haytham smiles at him, Altair immediately breaks out into sobs.

"What? No!" Edward makes a face and mumbles a word Tessa keeps telling him not to repeat in front of Haytham, and reaches down for Altair, holding him close and making soothing noises. Altair obviously wants no part of this, however, arching his back to get away and screaming louder. Edward chooses to interpret this as a reaction to being held by a stranger (Haytham is much the same with adults he doesn't know), rather than a specific reaction against Edward. Surely Edward can't have _already_ managed to offend him this badly.

Altair keeps screaming, but Edward is well used to crying babies by now, and sticks with his attempts at comfort. It takes quite a while, but Altair is finally just _barely_ starting to quiet when Edward hears Haytham start whimpering as well. He looks over at his son, and sees his face crumpled up in that specific way he has when he's just about to start crying, and his arms reaching up for his father. Either Altair's crying or Edward's paying too much attention to another baby has clearly upset him, and as Edward hesitates, Haytham's sniffles turn into full blown cries.

Well, this is going to be fun.

Somehow, an hour later, Edward has managed to quiet both boys, which is great. Less great is the fact that this has somehow resulted in balancing both of them precariously in his arms, and Edward's pretty sure he won't be able to move until Altair's visit ends. Haytham is draped over Edward's shoulder, both hands holding tightly to his father's clothes as he makes quiet, disapproving noises in Edward's ear (Edward imagines he's being told off for paying attention to Altair first). Altair, on the other hand, is curled up in a tight little ball on Edward's lap, his thumb in his mouth and his eyes closing sleepily.

Still, they're both calm now, and Edward allows himself half a second of relief before he feels the tingle of visitation. So help him, if it's another infant… Edward closes his eyes and prays for an adult.

He hears a gasp, and then—"Babies!"

Edward opens his eyes as he hears bare feet running across the wooden floor toward him, and sees Connor—or… Ratonhnhaké:ton, at this age—staring with all the wonder a child can muster at Altair and Haytham. He doesn't look any older than three or four years old, and because he is smiling, Edward assumes Ziio must still be alive.

"Shh," he says, and Connor nods seriously.

"Sorry," he whispers. "Babies are sleeping?"

"They just need quiet," Edward says. Connor watches in fascination as Altair reaches one tiny hand out and grabs one of Connor's fingers.

"I wanted a little brother or sister," he tells Edward. "But mother says we can't because father isn't around." He frowns. "I don't know why we need _him_ to have a baby." 

Haytham makes a little squealing noise in Edward's ear.

"It's, ah—" Edward considers that maybe Connor is too young to find out how babies are made. "Someone will tell you when you're older." Connor makes an unhappy noise, and Edward shakes his head. It's too early for Connor to be so upset—he'll have plenty of time later in life to be miserable. "Hey," Edward says, nudging his grandson. "Connor."

"What's that?"

He makes a face and doesn't even try saying Connor's other name. "Never mind. Do you want to hold him?"

Connor's face lights up. "Can I?"

"As long as you're careful," Edward says, but Connor has always been a serious, intensely responsible person, and he doesn't worry much about Connor dropping Altair or anything like that. Edward shifts Haytham into a more secure position, holding him close to his chest with both arms (Haytham beams up at him, and tries to grab at his nose). Connor watches carefully, listening to Edward explain the best way to hold an infant. Then he very carefully picks Altair up.

"He's heavy," Connor says, face pinching up in surprise.

Edward shifts over in his chair to make room. "Come sit next to me," he encourages, and Connor carefully maneuvers himself and Altair into the empty space, leaning against Edward a little bit. Altair looks perfectly content on Connor's lap, and Connor hugs him (carefully).

"Nice baby," he says happily, and Edward watches Connor talking to Altair, rocking him and making silly faces for Altair to laugh at. He is absolutely enthralled by the baby in his arms, and Altair doesn't seem to mind being the center of attention—he almost seems to be showing off for Connor, which is absolutely _typical_ of Altair. Except (and Edward cannot stop smiling at the thought) he seems to be showing off how cute he can be, which is… decidedly less typical.

It seems to work on Connor, who holds Altair more tightly, cuddling him with close until finally—and almost in the same moment—his visit and Altair's visit both end. Edward sighs at the sudden cold, empty space at his side, and plants a kiss on Haytham's forehead. "Don't worry," he says. "You're my favorite baby."

Haytham makes a face that Edward _immediately_ recognizes, his I'm-about-to-make-a-mess-in-my-diapers face, and Edward grimaces at the ensuing odor. "Still my favorite," he says again. "Good and bad, smells and all."


	35. Chapter 35

"I can't believe you _broke_ the animus," Shaun grumbles, and Desmond flinches.

"I didn't break it," he protests, without much real passion. Because technically the animus isn't working right now, and that is his own stupid fault. Well, mostly his fault, but he can't exactly say Ezio was distracting him when he tripped over the cables connecting the animus to Monteriggioni's sporadic electricity grid and apparently messed everything up. And technically, if his hallucination is the thing distracting him, isn't it really his own mind distracting him, so it's his fault again?

Desmond heaves a sigh, and Ezio pats him comfortingly on the back. "Cheer up," he says. "Your friends said they'll be able to fix your evil brain sucking machine."

"It's called an animus," Desmond grumbles. Not that he expects Ezio to listen. This is a younger Ezio, brash and still fixated on his family's murder. Desmond is still hoping his ancestor will outgrow calling the animus 'an evil brain sucking machine' at some point, but honestly he's not hopeful. Maybe an older Ezio would be mature enough to quit making fun of Desmond, but Desmond is hoping he doesn't have to live with these hallucinations long enough to meet an older Ezio.

"I know what it's called," Shaun sighs. "Can we just get this over with?"

Desmond glances at Ezio, who nods and steps into Desmond's skin. While they're in Monteriggioni, it's easier to have someone that sounds like a native Italian speaker, to avoid suspicion every time they go out for supplies. Which unfortunately means Desmond ends up letting Ezio drive his body a couple times a week. _"Si, mio amico,"_ Ezio says brightly, and Desmond's voice twists into something Desmond doesn't even recognize. It's not Ezio's voice, but it's not Desmond's either. It's just weird.

Shaun almost looks like he's going to say something along the same lines, but then he shakes his head and stays silent. "Let's just get this over with," he sighs. "If you're going to have the bleeding effect either way, we might as well take advantage of you being able to speak Italian." 

"Is that what I am to you?" Ezio asks, dropping back into something close to Desmond's natural voice. He glances sideways to where Desmond walks beside the two of them, completely invisible to Shaun. "You use Des—me for my memories, in the animus. You use the languages he— _I_ pick up from the bleeding effect to run errands, and the fighting skills to take care of templars you don't like. Am I just a thing to you, Shaun?"

Shaun stares at Ezio uncomfortably. Which is fair, because Desmond is doing mostly the same thing. He's been thinking the same thing for days now, wondering if any of the others even think he's human. Desmond keeps noticing the way they stop talking when he's around, the way they never start conversations with him, and end them quickly if Desmond does. But the thing is, Desmond hadn't wanted to _ask_ anyone if they think he's human. He doesn't want to hear the answer, and he's mad that Ezio would ask on his behalf. He aims a kick at his ancestor, and then stops at the last second, remembering Ezio is in _his_ body at the moment.

"You're a person, Desmond," Shaun says. He sounds wary, a man that can see this conversation heading down a path he doesn't' want to pursue, but doesn't know how to prevent. "I know that."

"You never act like it," Ezio says.

" _Ezio_ ," Desmond groans. "Will you please just… shut up and get this over with so I can have my body back?"

"I'm just trying to help," Ezio mutters, as Shaun gives him an uncomfortable look and hurries on ahead. "You spend all your time with these people, and they treat you like you're insane, or like you're just some broken toy sitting on a shelf. They take you out every once in a while to watch you dance, but they want nothing to do with you the rest of the time. It's no wonder you think you're crazy and none of us are real."

"You _aren't_ real," Desmond reminds him. And as long as he keeps that in mind, maybe he'll be able to have his life and sanity back. When they're done with the animus. Maybe, one day he'll be able to get through a whole day without Ezio or Altair popping in on him unexpectedly. That would be nice.

But much to Desmond's surprise, Ezio at least behaves himself for the rest of the trip. He and Shaun finish picking up supplies, and head back toward the ruined villa.

"Desmond," Shaun says, pausing at the entrance of the ruined villa. Ezio, distracted by glumly examining the remains of his home, and probably not remembering that his name is supposed to be Desmond just now, doesn't answer right away. Desmond coughs loudly, and Ezio starts and looks round at Shaun.

"What?" he asks.

"I was thinking," Shaun says, a little stiffly. "If Rebecca and Lucy haven't managed to get the animus working yet, ah… well, the three of us usually hang out, watch movies or whatever, after you're done for the day.

After Desmond passes out from exhaustion, he means.

"You should join us today," Shaun says. He seems to be struggling to say anything, and the awkwardness in the air is palpable. "Maybe—well, I suppose you had a point earlier. It's hard to see you like a person when you're in the animus all the time."

"No," Desmond says at once. "No, Ezio, don't agree, he's just offering to be nice, okay? He doesn't actually want to hang out with me, This is just going to be weird and awkward—"

"Sure," Ezio says at once, utterly ignoring Desmond. Because of course he does! Since when has Desmond had the right to expect that his own hallucinations would listen to him? "That would be really great, thanks."

Ezio ignores Desmond's heated glares. And when his visit is over and it turns out the girls have _not_ , in fact, gotten the animus fixed, Shaun ignores Desmond's attempts to excuse himself. Finally, when Lucy says she thinks it's a good idea too, Desmond gives in.

And… maybe it's not so bad, really. Sitting around, actually talking to the people he spends all his time with, relaxing for once and letting himself forget for an hour or two that anything weird is going on. He lets himself feel a little bit more like a human being, and a little bit less like a part of the animus himself.

"Thanks," he tells Shaun quietly, when they're done for the evening and cleaning up. "That was really—thanks for inviting me."

Shaun sort of smiles at him, as much as Shaun _ever_ smiles, and nods. "I'm sorry," he says. "For… you know. Everything. The animus. And for pretty much ignoring you." He's looking at the ceiling, not at Desmond. Obviously he could be better at apologies, but Desmond will take what he can get, at this point.

"It's fine," he says. "I'm fine, I'm—good, actually." And for the first time in ages, it's true.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a Shay/Aveline scene but SOMEONE decided to hijack the whole chapter.
> 
> *cough* Matthew *cough*

Connor and Aveline are off in some distant corner of the homestead, discussing assassin business away from the prying ears of children (and templars) when Shay notices the hidden entrance to the basement is open. His first thought is one of alarm, but he'd left Jeanne and Tomas asleep upstairs only moments ago, and his other two children—while young—are old enough to know better than to go down there. After what happened to Matthew, it had seemed a better idea to teach them that under _absolutely no circumstances_ were they to go downstairs, than to try and keep the room a secret. So far, the strategy has worked—the other day, Shay had walked in on Phillipe lecturing Jacob about how it was dangerous to go downstairs, much to the older woman's amusement.

But really, with Connor and Aveline away from the house, there's no reason for anyone to be down there. Even Shay doesn't belong there, in that haven for assassins. Under any other circumstances, he wouldn't have even considered going through the door, but his curiosity is peaked and frankly he's concerned about some unknown person in a room full of weapons, in the same house where his children play. Aveline will understand. Maybe Connor will, too.

Having thus justified it to himself, Shay creeps down on silent feet, listening carefully for any sign of someone coming up. He reaches the bottom without incident, however, and for a moment stands still on the last step, mouth open in blank surprise.

“Matthew,” he says at last, when his voice has come back. “Why are you down here?”

Matthew, who had been sitting cross legged and precariously balanced on a stool in the center of the room, starts and looks around at Shay. “I was just—sorry. I needed to think.”

“There are other places,” Shay points out. He can't help but notice that Matthew is staring at one of the swords hanging from the wall. _Not_ the one that had cut off his finger twelve years ago, Shay is sure of that. He'd thrown the damn blade over a cliff himself, when he realized how much it was hurting Connor, how he'd turned into a kind of symbol and justification for his guilt to feed on.

"I know," Matthew says. He struggles for a minute to continue, then shrugs. "I used to have nightmares about this place." He hesitates before saying 'used to,' and Shay wonders how bad they really are, this long after the fact. "I guess I wanted to see if it looked the same in real life as it does—did—in my dreams."

"Does it?"

Matthew nods. "Almost exactly. But, ah… less blood." He flashes Shay a quick, apologetic smile. "I suppose it wouldn't be a nightmare if it wasn't unpleasant, right?" He stands up and crosses his arms, looking thoughtfully at the array of weapons hanging from the wall.

"Maybe you shouldn't play with those," Shay says.

"I don't want to _play_ with them," Matthew says. "But I was hoping you would teach me to use them."

"I can't," Shay says, and Matthew glances over his shoulder, apparently surprised at Shay's quick response.

"Why not?" he asks. "You wear a sword, don't you know how to use it?"

"I do," Shay says. "But you shouldn't—I mean…" he sighs. "Matthew, look. This is a conversation you should be having with your father, not with me."

"I don't think so," Matthew says. "He's afraid, you know? And I guess I can't really blame him, but I want him to stop walking on eggshells around me. I thought… maybe if I could show him I'm not a careless child anymore, he'll relax."

"Connor doesn't really do that," Shay says doubtfully.

"And besides," Matthew goes on, ignoring Shay. " _I_ want to stop being afraid too. How can I get past the nightmares if I don't face what I'm afraid of? That's how you move on."

"Well, yes." Shay admits reluctantly. How many times has he told Phillipe exactly that when his son comes running to him to kill a spider, or when Jeanne insists she can't sleep in her room alone without a light? "But even if I wanted to teach you, it wouldn't be appropriate. It's complicated, but your father and I… we don't see eye to eye on certain things. If I were to teach you to fight, he might think I was trying to take you from him."

"Well he would be wrong!" Matthew protests. "I need to do this. To show him that neither of us has to be afraid, and to prove… to prove that I _belong_ here."

It's a convincing argument, and one that makes it harder for Shay to keep saying no. He shakes his head, opens his mouth, and isn't sure what he's intending to say, even as he starts to speak.

"Matthew—"

And what a terrible time this is for a visit. Shay blinks, squinting into the sudden bright, summer sunlight that has replaced the dim underground room of the homestead. When his eyes have adjusted, he looks down and sees Aveline smiling up at him from a bench. This is just outside her home in New Orleans, and this is a far older Aveline than the one in his time. She is old and tired and (something in Shay squeezes tight) no doubt near the end of her life. Shay sits at her side, still struggling to transition from the argument with Matthew into this peaceful summer's day with his suddenly aged wife. She reaches for his hand, and Shay squeezes it gently, but doesn't quite look at her.

"What's wrong, love?" she asks. "You seem distracted."

Shay sighs. "Nothing," he says. "I was just in the middle of a conversation that I don't much want to have."

"Care to share your worries with me?" Aveline asks, and Shay cannot resist spilling out the story. He doesn't know the exact year, but this is certainly long after whatever decision Shay will make about Mathew. At the end of his explanation, Aveline makes a thoughtful noise and closes her eyes. Shay waits patiently, still holding her hand, his heart suddenly aching. It is so hard to visit her like this, old and alone, and to see his strong, beautiful wife unable to express a thought without tiring herself.

"Can't you just tell me?" Shay asks after a while. "Do I train him or not?"

Aveline opens her eyes and gives him a look that is just as sharp as ever. "Where's the fun in that?" she asks. "But I have a question for you."

"What?"

"You've given me many reasons why teaching Matthew to use a sword is a bad idea. He could be hurt, again. Connor might object to his son being trained by a templar, or he could object to Matthew being trained at all."

"Right," Shay agrees.

"So why are you so conflicted about saying no?"

"Because… this probably won't work. It'll end in pain and tears, as all Kenway affairs inevitably do." Aveline makes an affirmative noise. "But if Matthew is serious about this, and if Connor can just… take it at face value, they'll have something in common with each other, and maybe Connor won't feel like he has to keep the assassins a secret any longer." He smiles bitterly. "Because that ended so _well_ with Emily."

"Shay, love?" Aveline says softly.

"Yes?"

"Are you really sure you don't know what to tell him?" Aveline asks. 

"No," Shay says. "I think I know."

"Then just sit with me a while," Aveline says. "Distract me from the pain in these old bones. Tell me about when you're coming from. How old are the children in your time?"

So Shay sits there and talks with her, as the bright sunlight shines down on the two of them. Aveline makes occasional appreciative noises, smiling at what must be old, treasured memories for her. Shay puts his arm around her, and hopes that one day Connor will have this with Matthew. A family.

When his visit ends, there is Matthew, standing in front of Shay with a determination like fire and steel in his eyes, still waiting for an answer. And Shay has one for him. "Matthew," he says. "If you really want to do this, we can. But it can't be down here." Whatever the circumstances, Shay still doesn't belong in this basement. "And I won't keep secrets from your father for long."

Matthew nods, determinedly. "I don't want you to," he says. "Just show me how to handle a blade safely, just enough so father won't worry. Then I'll tell him, I swear!"

And that's the beginning. For just over a month, Shay and Matthew meet in secret whenever they can. Aveline asks Shay what they're up to once, but he just winks and says he'll tell her when she's older. If Connor talks to Matthew about it, Matthew never tells Shay. And so their meetings continue, and Shay has to admit that Matthew is a good pupil. Eager to please, quick to learn, and _highly_ motivated. Had he been anyone else's son, Shay would have been thinking of ways to subtly introduce him to the templar order.

But he bites his tongue, and waits for Matthew to tell Connor. He's just starting to think that he and Matthew are going to have to sit down and have a talk about Connor, when one day he walks into the kitchen and finds Matthew deep in conversation with his father. Both of them are smiling (Matthew more broadly than Connor—the boy almost looks like he's about to burst with pride), and Connor nods at Shay to come join them.

"Matthew tells me you've been teaching him to use a sword," he says.

"Just a bit," Shay says. "Here and there. He's good, actually. Really good." Matthew's face is a pleased pink rapidly deepening to red.

"I know," Connor agrees. "He showed me some of what you've been teaching him earlier."

"I think he'd get a lot out of some instruction from you," Shay says pointedly. "I think there's a lot you could tell him, if you wanted to." He hasn't so much as mentioned templars or assassins to Matthew, but really—Connor should.

"Well thank you for showing him as much as you have," Connor says.

Shay nods at him, and excuses himself from the room to let Connor and Matthew talk more. He pauses, just out of sight on the other side of the door, though. And he lingers just long enough to hear Connor's next few words.

"Matthew," he says. "You're not the child I remember any longer, and I'm sorry if I've been treating you like one."

"Father—"

"There are things I should have told you as soon as you decided to stay here," Connor says. "But I plan to tell you now. Matthew, I…" the pause goes on so long it seems that going on must be physically painful for him. "Since I was younger than you," Connor finally manages at last. "I have followed a creed. It has shaped my entire life, and it is the reason your mother left when you were young."

"What sort of creed?" Matthew asks.

"The assassin's creed."

Shay slips away before he can overhear anything more, smiling softly as Connor's quiet voice recedes behind him.


	37. Chapter 37

The sheep are smelly and stupid and Edward _hates_ them, but they're a good hiding place. Because he's only a tiny bit taller than the sheep himself (one of the many stupid things about being five years old. Edward can't _wait_ to be bigger), and because everyone knows he hates the sheep, and no one ever looks for him with them. Sometimes he stays out here for the whole afternoon, and no one ever finds him (because he's the best hider ever, duh), and then he doesn't have to do his chores.

Today, though, Edward is just settling down to hide when all of a sudden the _sheep_ turn into a _ship_. A real ship! And Edward has never been on a ship before but suddenly he wants to never go back to the land. He can see water stretching out all around the ship, going on forever and ever, and white sails puff up over his head like clouds. Everything is moving, _everything_ , and Edward can't imagine anything more different than being on the stupid farm with the stinky sheep.

Edward runs as fast as his feet will take him to the front of the ship, straining on the tips of his toes to see where they are going. He can see land far away, little islands and rocks all huddled up together, and Edward wants to explore every single one, he wants to see everything. And beyond that is the place where the sea turns into the sky, and Edward wants to know what comes after that. He hugs the ship's railing tight and urges the ship to go faster, to try really hard and take him somewhere new.

For a very long time, so long his mom would _never_ have believed it, Edward stands where he is, draped over the railing, eyes wide while he drinks in the sights. The sky looks so _big_ here, so big and bright and blue, that Edward almost can't believe it's the same one he sees every day on the sheep farm. And when he gets tired of looking at the sky, there's the ocean speeding past under the ship's deck. Edward sees _dolphins_ once, and he wonders how many other fish there must be under the water, fish he can't see because he's stuck up here. Maybe if the big kids in town will teach him to swim, Edward can see all those fish for himself. A little wind picks up suddenly, kissing Edward's face and hands, blowing his hair all over the place. Edward imagines it's blowing the stupid, stinky sheep smell right off him, and leaving the smell of water and sky and endless journeys to brand new places behind.

 _Wow_. Why does anyone ever leave ships and live on the land?

It's warm on the ship, lots warmer than the sheep had been. Edward is already sweating in his layers of itchy clothes, and there's obviously only one way to fix that. Nobody else on the ship is paying him any attention at all, and anyway (Edward smiles to himself and hums happily, a dirty song he'd learned from an uncle that he's not _ever_ supposed to sing) who cares if other people see? He's not on the stupid sheep farm anymore, why should he have to follow the stupid sheep farm rules?

When he's taken all his clothes off and abandoned them on the deck (except for the itchy grey sweater he especially hates—that one not-so-accidentally falls over the side of the ship), Edward feels much happier. The wind picks up a little, wrapping around his bare skin like a hug, and Edward goes _running_ down the length of the ship, just because he can.

Except he hasn't gotten very far at all when someone grabs him around the waist and picks him up. "Hey!" Edward protests, giggling. "Stop it!"

"Edward?" the someone asks, and Edward twists around to see a big man with a stern face frowning down at him. Edward doesn't let it bother him—grown ups are always frowning at him.

"Hi," Edward says, wiggling hard with his whole body so that the grown up has to drop him. "Who are you?"

"Connor," the grown up says, after a short pause.

"Hi Connor!" He gestures vaguely all around them. "Is this your ship?"

"Yes," Connor says. "But—"

"It's so great!" Edward says. "It's just—wow! How did you get a whole ship? All I have are sheep, and they're not even _my_ sheep, which is fine with me, because who wants a bunch of stupid sheep? Not me, no way!"

"Edward—"

"I definitely want a ship though, someday I'm going to get one all by myself! I just decided. It's gonna be so, so great and I'll give it a really great name and have fun adventures, and make lots of friends, sail _everywhere_ , all over the whole world!"

" _Edward_ —"

"Except not to the places that have sheep. Maybe I can be a pirate and burn all the sheep farms to the ground!" He laughs like a crazy person (which seems to worry Connor) and jumps up and down. "Are you a pirate, Connor? It—"

"Edward," Connor says, and grabs him by the shoulders. "Calm down."

"I'm _calm_."

"You are definitely not calm," Connor tells him, and Edward sticks his lower lip out in a pout. "Take a deep breath, alright?"

Edward makes a big show of it, and then breathes in two more big breaths when he decides he likes the salty smell of the air here.

"There you go," Connor says. "Alright now, Edward. Before anything else, I have to ask—where are your clothes?"

Edward crosses his arms and shakes his head. "They were stinky," he says. "And itchy and hot. So I took them all off!"

Connor looks like he's going to do the frowning grown up thing again, but then another man (this one has a funny hat) comes striding toward them. He looks at Connor, and then he looks at (all of) Edward, and then he turns around and walks back the way he'd come.

"No," he says firmly.

"Father!" Connor calls after him.

"He's visiting you."

"He's _your_ father!"

"Not yet," the man says, and just keeps walking. "Enjoy."

"Hey," Edward whispers, elbowing Connor in the leg (it's the highest part of the man he can reach). "D'you think he'd let me borrow his hat?"

Connor makes a pained groaning noise. "Edward," he says. "Trust me. A hat is not the article of clothing you need the most right now."


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE HAPPY AND I KENWAY'D MYSELF IN THE FEELS INSTEAD

So… this is a young Haytham. Well, not _young_ young, not young like the happy, giggling three year old Edward had left at home, sticking his fingers up his sister's nose (silly boy). But this Haytham is young in his own way. Young enough to think his father doesn't know who he is, as if that's something he can (or _should_ ) keep hidden. But then, children always think they know better than their fathers. Silly, silly boy…

"Hat Man," Edward says, casually falling onto the hard, narrow bed next to Haytham. He mentally congratulates himself for remembering not to use his son's real name-- Haytham looks too young for the revelation that his father knows he is a visitor. Then he glances around, curious. They're on a ship, but it's not the _Morrigan_ and it's not the _Aquila._ Maybe this is before Haytham meets either Shay or Connor—this Haytham _does_ look new to visiting. Very new. He starts and turns around to stare at Edward with the expression of a man seeing a ghost, and Edward makes a face at him. It doesn't help to ease the tension.

"Edward," Haytham says. Stiffly.

"Where are we?" Edward asking, looking around the little cabin. He doesn't like it, but then he's never much liked hiding below decks.

"The _Providence_ ," Haytham says, after a brief pause to weigh his words. Edward doesn't like the way he does that "I'm traveling to the colonies."

"Templar business?" Edward asks. He means to tease Haytham, but his son only grunts and looks away from him. Something is obviously bothering Haytham, and Edward hopes he's not the cause of that discomfort. "Hay—Hat Man?"

Haytham doesn't catch the slip, just frowns. "What?"

"You look concerned."

"I am concerned," Haytham says.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Haytham looks at him, confused, and Edward realizes he's being too sympathetic. Just now, his son thinks that Edward thinks that he's a stranger, and so Edward has to pretend he isn't worried. Why did Haytham have to go and make everything so complicated? "I don't know why you would care," Haytham says, and he draws back into himself, sealing up his emotions, until he's closed off every part of himself that matters.

Edward frowns. "We're visitors," he says, instead of _I'm your father and I want you to be happy please let me take care of you._

"So what?"

This time, Edward allows himself a long, drawn out, dramatic sigh. He slumps back in his seat, limp and boneless, and frowns up at Haytham. "You're difficult," he says, and his performance is rewarded with a reluctant almost-smile from Haytham. "And what do you _mean_ so what?"

"Visitors," Haytham says. "If I understand the concept correctly, we're a group of people that have the ability to bother one another across time and space, to intrude on even the most intimate moments. I see no reason we should be required to care for one another simply because of these _visits_."

"How many visits have you had?" Edward asks.

"Three," Haytham says shortly. "And if I had the choice I would never have another."

"Well," Edward says. "I've had _quite_ a lot of visits. It's been more than ten years since it started for me, and Hat Man, it's not as bad as you think. I've seen visitors make friends, fall in love, reunite with family, and make one of our own." He sits up, serious. "We're a funny family, Hat Man, but we _are_ a family. Definitely dysfunctional, but we can depend on each other, always. We fight, and we disagree, and we annoy each other." He frowns and adds (petulantly), "Altair threw me off a _building_ once."

"Altair?" Haytham asks, apparently startled out of his surly unhappiness. " _A building?"_

"It's alright," Edward says, waving Haytham's concerns away. "I took all his clothes off and tore up his underwear so we were even."

Haytham gives him a look that seems to say _'I have no idea what to say,'_ and Edward grins at him. "Was… was there a point you were aiming for there?" Haytham asks at last.

"Oh! Yes. My point is that even with all that, I know my visitors have been some of the most important people in my life. I don't know where I'd be without you lot, but I have a funny feeling it wouldn't be a good place. And I hope… I _know_ that eventually you'll come to feel the same way."

Haytham looks uncertain, so Edward bounces up from the bed and hugs him. He tries to do that every time he visits Haytham, now that he knows who he is. It is… indescribably difficult for Edward to see his bright little baby all grown up into this man of jagged edges and hard shells. Perhaps it's pointless to hope that a few hugs will make a difference, but Edward is more than willing to try. For a few moments, Haytham doesn't protest. He even raises one trembling arm up like he's going to hug Edward back. Edward hopes he will, but then he clenches his hand into a tight fist and lets it drop back to his side.

But he doesn't pull away from the hug. Small steps.

"You said you've been visiting a while," Haytham says, in a voice that is barely a whisper. "In your time, are we close enough that I… that I can…"

"Tell me anything," Edward says. "Ask me anything, I won't judge."

"I don't think…" Haytham breathes a little sigh into Edward's ear. "I'm not sure I deserve any kind of family. I killed a man in front of my mother once, and she didn't forgive me until the day she died. My sister needs my help, and I don't even know how to begin. My father…" he shakes in Edward's arms, and Edward tightens his hug. "My father might be haunting me. I have never fallen in love. I sometimes dream of having a child, but that's all they are, just dreams." He laughs bitterly. "I suppose there is Desmond, he claims to be my descendant, but he doesn't seem particularly sane. I don't know if I can trust him and I don't know that I _want_ him. As for the visitors being like family, I just don't know if I can believe that."

Edward rubs his son's back. He's thinking about the fragile but _real_ relationship he and Haytham have formed over the years. And about Ziio, and the way Haytham's face always softens when he talks about her, all the way to the end of his life. And about Connor and Haytham, gradually learning to care for one another as Connor grows older and older. And about Desmond, who is as much Haytham's son as Connor, maybe more, because they'd chosen each other.

"You don't have to believe it yet," he says. "It's alright. You'll get there in the end."

Haytham sniffs once, twice, then gently pulls away from Edward. He fights to get himself back under control, to reconstruct the walls he keeps so carefully built up around him. Edward watches it happen, and wishes there was something, anything he could do to tear those walls down and find the bright little boy he _knows_ must be buried there, way down deep. Crushed under the weight of those tall, heavy walls. But Haytham is stubborn, and he's been hurting himself like this for a long time.

What a sad, silly boy…


	39. Chapter 39

The other boy shows up out of nowhere at the kitchen table, and Desmond is so surprised he throws the sandwich he's holding in one hand straight at him. It hits him right in the face, and Desmond’s father responds immediately by scowling at Desmond. “What are you wasting perfectly good food for?” he demands. “Clean up your face and go to your room.”

“But _dad_ —“

“Desmond, I'm trying really hard not to be mad right now, but you're five years old." He _always_ says stuff like that. Every time Desmond has another birthday, he gets another lecture—you're three now, you're too big to be afraid of the dark. You're four, you're too old for toys (even extra special lions that don't yell at you when you hug them). He should have known this birthday wouldn't be any different. "You shouldn't be throwing food at yourself.”

“I didn't!”

“Don't lie to me,” his father snaps. “You know what I think about lying. Just _go._ ”

Desmond stares at him, speechless and confused (he would at least understand if he'd gotten in trouble for throwing food at the other boy). The boy gets up from the table and walks around to tug on Desmond's sleeve. “He can't see me, I don't think,” he says.

"But you're right there!" Desmond wails, tears welling up in his eyes.

The bigger boy took Desmond gently by the hand and led him upstairs. "Is this where your room is?" he asks. Desmond nods, and points to the right door. There's not much inside, just his bed and the drawers with his clothes in it. Desmond pulls away from the big boy and jumps on his bed, leaning back against the wall and wrapping his arms around his legs.

"Why did you have to come?" he demands. "Now dad's angry at me, and he hasn't been angry at me in two whole days! I was being good!"

"Two days isn't a lot," the bigger boy says doubtfully. "My dad doesn't get mad at me, hardly _ever_."

"Wanna switch?" Desmond asks glumly. The boy shakes his head, then gets up on the bed next to Desmond.

"I'm Haytham," he says. "Did we ever meet before? I don't remember."

"I dunno," Desmond mutters. "I met a Haytham before, but he's really, _really_ old. He takes care of my lion."

"You have a lion?"

Desmond shrugs miserably. "I'm not allowed anymore. Even though he was my special friend."

Haytham hugs him a little, but Desmond only pouts at him. "My momma sewed him for me," he says. "And then dad took him away." Haytham hugs him harder, and sort of pets his head a little, like Desmond is a puppy or something. It should feel weird, but it's been a long time since Desmond had been held at all.

"I'm gonna run away," Desmond says. "As soon as I'm big enough. I'm gonna go far away and dad will _never_ find me."

Haytham makes a little approving noise and nods. "Come find me," he says. "We can be friends, and you can meet my dad. He's the best. You'll like him."

"Do you want me to come?" Desmond asks, confused by the offer. " _Me_?"

"Well, yes."

Desmond smiles bashfully, and looks up at Haytham to say that… well yea that would be really nice. But the smile goes limp and fades from his face, and Desmond suddenly feels worse than he had when his dad had only been yelling at him.

There's nobody else there. The room is silent and empty and cold, the way it always is. Desmond is as alone as he has ever been, and there is no mysterious friend sitting next to him, hugging him and telling him he's wanted.

"It's okay," Desmond whispers to himself. In the absence of anyone or anything else to hold, he wraps his arms tight around himself and squeezes hard. "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay. It doesn't hurt. You don't feel sad." It's not the first time he's sat on his bed, repeating this litany of denials until he can make himself believe nothing is wrong. He stays there in his bed, hugging himself and rocking back and forth, promising himself that _no, no, no_ it wasn't real and it doesn't have to hurt.

By the time his dad comes to find him and see if he's 'ready to stop acting like a brat and get on with the afternoon's training,' Desmond has managed to completely bury the entire incident somewhere in the back of his head, along with all the other things it hurts too much to think about. He manages to give his father the apology he wants to hear, and then he ducks his head and follows him out of the room.


	40. Chapter 40

Haytham has been worrying about his first meeting with Connor ever since he'd first learned of their complicated relationship. But of all the ways he'd imagined it going horribly wrong (and there had been a countless number of these scenarios), the one thing he'd never even thought to worry about was… well... himself.

"Snow!"

He and Connor stare in almost identical horror at the child Haytham that has appeared out of nowhere. He's beaming, happy and excited, so clearly he can't be any older than ten, although he might be as young as five. Haytham is not great at estimating children's ages, and he can't remember this visit. Not _well_ , anyway—he dimly remembers finding himself in the middle of a snowy day when it should have been July, but he can't remember when exactly that was, or any of the details.

Unfortunate. Haytham would have at least appreciated knowing in advance if his younger self is going to say anything too painfully embarrassing. And he and Connor had been only _moments_ away from parting, too, their work together done for the moment. Haytham should have had a whole month before Connor came to meet him in New York, but now.

Well. The child Haytham is clearly visiting Connor (to Haytham's knowledge, visitors _cannot_ visit themselves), and there is simply no way Haytham is going to let this visit pass unsupervised.

The little Haytham spins around in the snow, ignoring the cold for the moment as he laughs and sticks out his tongue to catch snowflakes. Connor gives his father a skeptical look, and Haytham tries to pretend his face isn't the approximate color of a tomato. If there's any consolation in this moment, it's that at least his younger self is invisible to everyone but Connor.

And then he looks over at Connor, and sees him struggling not to laugh. Haytham's mood sours further. He has rarely seen his son crack so much as a smile, and here he is _laughing._ At Haytham. “Don't you think we ought to get inside somewhere?” he asks, gesturing pointedly at the little boy dressed for a London summer rather than a New England winter.

“Can't we play?” the little Haytham begs. “Please?” his eyes look up at his older self and then (clearly finding no sympathy there) swing sideways to look at Connor instead. “I've never seen snow in the summer before! It's a special snow.”

Connor crouches down close to Haytham. “But aren't you cold?” He asks, with… far more kindness than he should have. “You don't want to be ill.”

“It would be worth it,” little Haytham insists. He crosses his arms and tries hard to pretend he's not shivering.

Haytham is quickly running out of patience for this conversation. They had passed an inn not far back along the road, it will do until this visit ends. Without a word, Haytham bends down and picks up himself from the ground. He ignores the shriek of protest, and gestures for Connor to follow him. His son looks confused and slightly uncertain, but in the end follows without complaining. Haytham has no idea why, since everything else he's asked Connor to do has been met with questions and complaints, but he'll happily take silence in this case.

If only, if only…

After only a few minutes, the younger Haytham starts talking and _does not stop_. For someone that had been insisting he doesn't mind the temperature as long as he can play in the snow, he certainly is complaining a lot. The adult Haytham, on the other hand, can't feel the cold at all. His face is burning in secondhand embarrassment, and he's sure his ears must literally be turning red. He wishes this visit would just end already, but the shivering child in his arms feels just as solid as he had when he first appeared. Haytham sighs and resigns himself to simply being unbearably uncomfortable for the foreseeable future. When they finally reach the inn and manage to get a room, Haytham puts his younger self down on the bed and tells him (rather more sternly than he needs to, but then—he is trying to preserve _some_ degree of respectability in front of his son) to stay put and be quiet.

The younger Haytham, looking crestfallen, sulkily slides off the bed to sit in front of the window and watch the snow fall. Haytham has no idea what to say or do, and busies himself mainly in avoiding Connor's curious gaze. After a tense few minutes, the younger Haytham sighs (in that loud, overly dramatic way children have when they're trying to attract attention). His eyes dart sideways at his older self, and then at Connor. When neither of them reacts, he sighs more loudly.

Connor breaks first. "Are you alright?" he asks stiffly. The tone is uncertain, and Haytham thinks viciously (because all this has certainly put him in a vicious frame of mind) that Connor will make a terrible father.

"I _really_ wanted to play in the snow," little Haytham says miserably. "It snowed once at home, and father took me outside and we made a snowman!"

And Edward had built it crooked, so that as soon as the sun came out it had started to melt, all on one side, gradually drifting sideways. Edward had named it Ilene and laughed like it was the funniest joke he'd ever made. Of course, now that Haytham has spent more time with his father as an adult, through visiting, he has to admit that it might actually have been the funniest. Which isn't saying much.

Little Haytham laughs and smiles at Connor. "It was a crooked snowman, but father says it had _character_. He named it Ilene! Get it? Because it leaned over sideways in the sun!" He jumps to his feet, leaning sideways on one foot and laughing hysterically until he loses his balance and tumbles almost into his older self. Haytham catches him more out of instinct than anything, and suddenly he's looking straight down into the open, innocent face of the boy he'd once been. It's still alive with the last fading bits of his laughter, and Haytham has the sudden (absurd) thought that this boy in his arms can't be _him_. Of course not, he's never been this innocent. He can't recognize himself in his child.

Haytham starts to gently push himself away, and then all of a sudden, Connor steps in. "Haytham," he says, leaning over slightly to look at the boy. "Do you want to build a snowman?"

"Come on!" little Haytham seizes Connor's hand at once, almost dragging him away. "Let's go and play!"

"Connor!" Haytham calls after them, as Connor bundles his younger self up as best he can, and escorts him outside. "Don't you dare!"

Connor ignores him. Of course he does. He is the most insolent, disobedient son Haytham can imagine having, and…

And he can hear their voices drifting in from the outside for nearly an hour after that, his own more than Connor's, both of them apparently having a good time. Haytham stays inside, at the window, watching as the snowman gradually takes shape. Maybe this is a good sign. He's been thinking of nothing but how Connor will be unable to respect him now, after seeing his father as a flighty, ridiculous child.But they are visitors. Can their relationship ever be as normal as any other pair of father and son? Maybe Haytham should just take it as an encouraging sign that Connor is spending his time cheering the younger Haytham up. He wouldn’t do that for someone he didn't care for at all. Would he?

The younger Haytham vanishes not long after the snowman is completed, and Connor leaves without coming back inside to speak with his father. Haytham decides it's too late to travel tonight, and decides to turn in.

The next morning, he wakes to the sight of the snowman just outside his window. It's warmer today than it had been yesterday, and the sun is shining brightly. The snowman is already starting to lean slightly to one side.

It is a good hour or two before Haytham realizes some part of his mind has accidentally named it Ilene, and that there is a smile fixed across his face.


	41. Chapter 41

Shay is caught by every conceivable misfortune on his way back to the homestead after his daughter is born. He wants nothing more than to get back to his family, to hold Jeanne in _his own arms_ , instead of Aveline’s while visiting. But there are storms, and then an attack by assassins, and then a flu that goes tearing through the crew, keeping them shorthanded for the rest of the trip.

At some point, Shay very nearly jumps off the ship and starts _swimming_ for land. He just wants to be home already. He wants it so badly it's like a physical ache, and of course that does no good in helping the ship arrive sooner. If anything, it seems to tell the crew he doesn't really want to be here, and their motivation falls in response.

But they don't understand—well, how could they? Shay is almost certain none of them have ever given birth, and then been unfairly ripped away from their newborn daughter _long_ before they are ready to go. He grits his teeth and pushes through, and finally ( _finally_ ) they dock at the homestead. Shay does the absolute minimum necessary to keep the _Morrigan_ from drifting away and out to open sea, then leaves one of the more experienced hands in charge of the last few details.

He goes running for the manor, and Aveline catches him in the kitchen. She's feeding Rory while Philippe tugs on her leg, whining for attention. Shay looks at Aveline, and she laughs at the expression on his face. "I expected you over a week ago," she says.

"You wouldn't believe the journey I had to get back here," he says seriously. "I started to think I'd wandered into the _Odyssey._ "

"Well—" Aveline points him toward the stairs. "I left Jeanne upstairs, asleep. Although the last time I went up there, Jacob was looking after her."

"Jacob?" He's never been overly fond of Connor's younger aunt. She intimidates him more than he lies to admit. "Why?"

Aveline shrugs. "I suppose she was curious," she says. "Who doesn't like a baby?"

Shay half shrugs, and glances upstairs, as if he expects to be able to see through the ceiling and into the room where his daughter sleeps. The wooden beams remain annoyingly opaque. "I should…"

" _Go_ ," Aveline says, grinning at him, and Shay kisses her briefly (ignoring Philippe's _'ew, yucky!'_ ) before running upstairs. Sure enough, Jacob stands in the room that he and Aveline normally share, holding Jeanne gently against her chest, almost rocking her. 

It's such an unexpectedly sweet tableau that Shay pauses in the doorway, looking at her. Jacob has always struck him as one of the least motherly people he has ever met, but Jeanne just looks natural there, in the old woman's arms. Well—Shay really should know by now not to judge people so quickly.

He steps forward, and Jacob looks up at him. "You have a beautiful daughter," she says, and Shay nods. Of course he does. Jeanne is beautiful, wonderful, _perfect_ , and he cannot tear his eyes away from her. It seems to take an age for Jacob to hand the infant over, but then suddenly Shay is alone in the room with Jeanne in his arms.

"You're something special, aren't you?" he asks her. Jeanne stretches a little in his arms, eyes gradually focusing on his face as he leans over her. "Of course you are. Beautiful and strong, just like your mother" He smiles. "I'll be beating the boys back when you're older." Because—well alright, maybe he's a bit biased, what with the whole giving birth to her thing, but it just doesn't seem logical to him that anyone else would be able to look at Jeanne without seeing how special she is. She'd somehow even managed to win over gruff, intimidating Jacob.

"Papa?" Philippe calls from the doorway, and Shay turns back to look at his oldest son. "Is she sleepy? Maman says not to bother Jeanne when she's sleepy."

Shay shakes his head, and Philippe comes bouncing into the room, standing on his tip toes to look at his little sister. "I like her," he declares. "Do you like her, papa?" 

"I do." Shay shifts Jeanne so he's holding her securely in one arm, and hugs Philippe with the other. "I love all my children."

Philippe beams at this, and chatters away about everything Shay's missed while he's been away at sea. Shay listens intently, even when Philippe gets sidetracked on tangents that seem to go on forever. But while most of him is listening to Philippe going on and on and on, there is some warm, happy part of his mind that can't think about _anything_ but how lucky he is, to be here with his family. Never would he have imagined, back in the early days of his relationship with Aveline, would he have imagined their mutual attraction could lead to anything like this.

But here he is. With his daughter and his son, with his wife downstairs with their other son. And Shay can't imagine a better family.


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just FYI, I had a three hour bus trip without internet today, during which I wrote two chapters. If you missed the first one, you should go back and read it! It's significantly less depressing than this one!

Ezio isn't exactly sure what he's expecting to find when he finally gets past Rodrigo Borgia and into the hidden room under the Vatican, but… well, it's not this. Some weird woman with angry eyes and a harsh voice that wants to talk to _Desmond_ , of all people, and won't listen to a word Ezio has to say. On top of being rude, she's really not helping herself any. If she'd just give Ezio half a second to get a word in edgewise, he'd have explained that yes _technically_ she could get a message to Desmond through the animus like this, but it would be a lot easier to just tell him whatever she wants Desmond to hear. Or, Ezio could just try stripping off to see if Desmond will show up for the ensuing awkwardness. There's a good chance he will, the second things start getting weird. But she won't listen to a word he has to say, so now she's just rambling on and on and wasting both of their time.

Eventually, Ezio throws his hands up in exasperation and gives up. He doesn't want to walk away, just in case this is actually information Desmond really does need to know, but really none of this is proving to be all that enjoyable. He is mildly annoyed to be treated like just a _thing_ , some inanimate object used to pass messages along, and wishes this Minerva woman would hurry up and finish what she's saying.

Realization dawns all at once, so that Ezio actually gives a little "oh!" aloud. (Minerva, of course, ignores him). This feeling must be what Desmond has to deal with _all the time_ because of the animus. That's awful. Ezio feels a bit of defensive anger start to rise up in him, but before he has the chance to say anything, he feels the familiar tingle in his mind that means someone is coming to visit. He half turns and there is Altair, looking both angry and—and are those tears on his face?

They are. Altair is crying.

Ezio stares at him, but Altair flat out ignores him. He sees Minerva and makes a noise that might as well be a growl, striding past Ezio. He seems ready to confront her for some reason, as if he has forgotten that she will not be able to see him. Maybe he has. Ezio has never seen Altair like this, emotional and lashing out.

" _You_ ," Altair snaps at her. "You and your kind. Meddling in human affairs like the gods you would have us believe you are. Playing with us like children's toys, manipulating and ruining lives long after your time has passed."

"Altair," Ezio protests, but quietly. He doesn't quite know what to do to stop Altair, or even if he should. "What _happened_?"

Altair ignores him. This is becoming a trend, and not one Ezio much likes. He watches as Altair continues laying into the projection of a precursor woman that cannot hear or see him. "I have lost many friends," Altair says. "I was taught from childhood that the life I had chosen meant the lives of everyone around me were cheap and easily taken. I grew to accept this, because what choice did I have? That was simply the way things were, the way things _are_. But what you have done to us, what your people did to _Desmond_ —"

Ezio's stomach flips. What has happened to Desmond?

"That was an entirely different level of harm," Altair goes on. His voice steadies a bit, his back straightens, and he steps up close to Minerva, looking her directly in the eye. "December 21, 2012," he says. "Remember this date. Because I will _never_ forget it, or what your kind did to one of the few people I called a friend."

For just a second, a there and then gone second that Ezio almost thinks he must be imagining, Minerva looks back at Altair. And she flinches.

Later, when she is gone and Ezio has a moment alone with Altair, he pulls him aside. "What was that?" he asks. "Altair?"

"Never mind," Altair says. His voice is gruff, obviously upset, but he has managed to pull himself together somewhat. "If that is still in your future, I don't want to weigh you down with knowing it's coming before it happens."

"But—"

Altair shakes his head.

"Would you really take on Minerva?" Ezio asks, instead of pushing farther to find out what had happened to Desmond. "Or the rest of the precursors?"

Altair shrugs. "I don’t suppose it matters," he says. "I'll never have the chance, will I? I just… wanted her to be afraid that I _might_. Just for a moment." He smiles sheepishly at Ezio. "And I suppose I thought a childish tantrum might prevent me from going out and _doing_ something stupid and reckless."

"Personal growth!" Ezio crows, and Altair almost smiles.

"Ezio…"

"Yes?"

"We are… friends, are we not?"

Ezio nods, confused, and before he can say or do anything else, Altair has pulled him into a stiff but obviously heartfelt hug. Ezio hugs him back (reminding himself that this is Altair, and he needs to be gentler than he would with most people). First crying, now hugs? Altair must really be suffering.

"Today has been the worst of all days," Altair says as he pulls away, confirming Ezio's guess. "I suppose I needed… well." He steps back, looking uncertain, and then vanishes as his visit comes to an end.

Ezio stands there for a while longer, thinking about what Altair had said about Desmond. _"What your kind did to one of the few people I called a friend."_

Called.

Past tense.

But— _no._


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read chapter 56 of Visitors (Gratuitous Wish Fulfillment Edition) before reading this.

"Clay…" Desmond hesitates, glancing over at Clay to make sure he's paying attention before he goes on. But Clay looks almost sane for once, and his eyes are sharp, so this is as good a time to ask his questions as any. "Are we alone here?"

Clay raises his eyebrows, and gestures around them at the sparse, dreary landscape of Animus Island. "Of course we are," he says. "It's not like there's anywhere for someone to hide. And this place is kind of by invitation only, you know? Except the invitation is insanity."

"Right, Clay." Desmond winces, and tries to pretend that Clay's cheerful attitude toward their shared animus induced insanity doesn't bother him. "Sure."

"What did you want to know for?" Clay asks, studying Desmond curiously.

"I just keep seeing things," Desmond admits. "Sort of there and then not, you know? Like I'll see someone moving around out of the corner of my eye, and then when I turn there's nothing there."

"Oh." Clay flops down on the ground, all his good cheer abruptly evaporating. "Yea. I know what you're talking about."

Desmond sits down next to him, leaving a careful amount of space between the two of them. Clay shifts closer and drops his voice. "I didn't make this place, you know," he says. There's something almost pitying in his voice, and Desmond has to wonder who _Clay_ can feel sorry for. The man is a bodiless mind, trapped in an animus and utterly crazy. Is there really someone here worse off than him?

"Animus Island?" Desmond asks.

"Right. I just found it. I'd have animus sessions during the day, and dig around in the code overnight. I got to know the animus better than maybe anyone else. I know I'm the only living person…" he hesitates, frowning. "I _was_ the only living person to know about this place. Now I guess you're the only living person."

"So if nobody knows about it, where did it come from?" Desmond asks. "This is a computer, someone must have programmed this place."

"I think it started off as a kind of test room," Clay says. "But then something happened. I don't know. Thirty something years ago."

There's a long pause. "What?" Desmond presses. "What happened?"

"Subject One died," Clay says. "While he was in the animus. One second he's going through his ancestor's memories, the next second zap! Dead."

Desmond flinches involuntarily.

Clay kicks at the loose gravel underfoot and nods slowly. "But he was actually in the animus when he died, so part of his mind got shunted into this place. That was over thirty years ago, like I said, and since then the line between _him_ and _here_ has gotten thinner. It's kind of hard to explain, but he sort of is Animus Island. All this is a reflection of his mind. What's left of it. I mean, he didn't choose to come here, like I did. And he doesn't have a living body on the outside, like you do. He's a few cards short of a full deck, you know?"

Desmond looks around, at the gray rocks, surrounded by gray waters, bordered by gray skies. "Poor guy," he whispers.

"Yea." Clay somehow manages to inch closer to him, and just at this moment, Desmond doesn't protest the closeness. "I figured out how to store a copy of myself here before I died because it seemed like a safe place. The templars didn't know about it. So here I am. But this place really belongs to Subject One. Once in a while he kind of shows up. Never says anything. I don't think he's all there, and the first few times I saw him, he scared the shit out of me. But I think… I don't know what, but I think he's just looking for something." He hesitates, like he wants to say something else, then shakes his head.

"What's his name?" Desmond asks.

"I don't know," Clay admits. "I hate calling him Subject One, the same way I hate being called Subject Sixteen. But I don't know his name. I don't think he knows it himself, anymore." He laughs, bitterly. "You think the bleeding effect is bad now, with the animi we used? He was in the very first one."

"Shit," Desmond mutters, and he and Clay huddle together on the rocky ground for a while after that, until Desmond is ready to see more of Ezio's memories.

When he finishes, later that day (or a hundred years later—it's hard to keep track of time in here), Desmond returns to Animus Island. It looks exactly the same as it had when he left, gray on gray on gray, but—something's off. Desmond bites his lip and sets off to explore the island, looking for whatever it is that's making this place feel so wrong.

He finds Clay, eventually, asleep. Desmond hadn't known for sure that Clay had to sleep here, so that's interesting by itself. But more than that…

There's a second man crouching over Clay, and everything about him is all wrong. He's average height. Average weight. His skin and clothes and hair are all gray, washed out and _empty_ , just like the island. The man is busy with Clay when Desmond first sees him, studying Clay in silent, intense concentration. Every so often, his body seems to flicker, fading in and out of existence, and even when he's visible he doesn't seem all the way there.

Desmond goes still and quiet, and he's absolutely positive he hasn't made a sound—but suddenly the man goes stiff and in a blink he moves from Clay to Desmond. His face is blank, not just his expression but the features as well. There is absolutely nothing in his gray, empty features to distinguish him. He barely looks human, and Desmond can't help cowering away from him, even lashing out—but his clumsy blow only knocks the man back a few feet. He stands where he falls, staring unblinkingly at Desmond.

Clay wakes abruptly at the sound, shouting in Italian. He blinks, shakes his head, and gets slowly to his feet.

"Clay?" Desmond demands. "What's going on?"

"Subject One," Clay says. "I told you, he's… not all here."

Desmond's breathing is gradually returning to normal. "Okay," he says. "So he's… I mean, is he dangerous?"

"He's never hurt me," Clay says, which is not particularly reassuring. It's not like Clay has to worry about dying again.

Subject One is shuffling closer to them again, and the only reason Desmond doesn't start running away is because Clay has grabbed him by the elbow. "Clay—"

"Just let him give you a once over," Clay tells him. "He'll leave you alone after that. Like a dog, you know. They have to sniff you a while before they'll leave you alone."

"He still looked pretty interested in you," Desmond says doubtfully.

"Who—" Subject One's voice just barely sounds human. It's more mechanical than anything, stuttering and oddly flat. "Y—you—who..?"

Desmond cringes uncomfortably and glances pleadingly at Clay. He really wants to leave, but Clay shakes his head. Reluctantly, Desmond looks back at Subject One. "Desmond," he mutters. "Desmond Miles."

"De—Des—" He flickers in and out of focus several times, and suddenly his hands are on Desmond's face. They're cold and hard, and it almost feels like he's trying to poke his fingers right through Desmond's skin. "De—De—Desmo—"

It's like listening to a CD skipping, annoying but not too bad (at least, not as long as Desmond doesn't think about how this is the remnant of someone that used to be human). Then Subject One shakes his head. "V—visitor."

"What?" Desmond demands. "How did you know about that?" Visiting is just in his head, isn't it? Did Subject One have a similar sort of bleeding effect?

" _Visitor_ ," Subject One insists, and Desmond nods.

"Yea," he agrees. "Sure, visitor—"

The man hugs him. Just lunges forward and hugs him, hard, and there are tears suddenly. Desmond can feel them where the man is crying on his shoulder, but more than that he can feel them in the air, in the ground—the whole of Animus Island is shaking, and a sharp wind suddenly kicks up as a heavy rain starts to fall.

"W—w—waited—" Subject One's voice is warmer than it had been a moment ago, more human somehow. "Wanted to see—" he hugs Desmond harder. "Desmond." There's almost a smile in his voice, and every word seems more human than the one before had been. "Visitor!" The rain and the wind and the shaking start to die down a little, but Subject One doesn't let go. He looks a bit less gray now, a tiny bit more like an actual person.  There is some color in his face. "You are _so_ important to them."

Desmond risks a question. "Who?"

"Aveline," Subject One says. He looks up at Desmond, and there's real emotion on his face. He looks like a man that is hopelessly, blissfully in love. _"Shay."_ He lets go of Desmond, hugs himself, rocking back and forth. Then he touches Desmond's face again, more gently this time. "So this is what you look like… and your voice… this is what you sound like." He's still crying, but more gently now. He looks so… so human. It's like something about Desmond has woken him up. "You can see them all," Subject One says. "The visitors. You can see them, hear them—I wanted to know you all, but when I was in the animus, all I could do was feel you." He reaches out and grabs Desmond's hand. Gently, he guides it to his own chest. There is a very faint heartbeat there, in Subject One's dead chest. "I know all of you in here," he says. "I know you're all important. Now I see you. You're here. Real. His hand tightens around Desmond's, but not tight enough to hurt. "Don't take your visitors for granted," he urges. "You're so lucky to have them. You don't know what it's like to be cut off from that."

And then he simply vanishes, blinking abruptly out of existence. The air goes still and quiet again, the ground stops shaking. Desmond takes a deep breath and stares at Clay. "What was that?" he demands.

Clay shrugs. "Who are Aveline and Shay?"

Desmond shakes his head cluelessly. Altair and Ezio use the word visiting, so maybe that's where Subject One heard it. But Desmond's never met any Aveline or Shay. Poor guy. He must be so, so crazy…

"Desmond," Clay says suddenly. "Look!"

"Look at what?" Desmond asks. He follows Clay's pointing finger, and after a second he sees it. Until now, Animus Island has been barren and desolate, empty apart from Desmond and Clay and the specter of Subject One. Suddenly, there is grass poking out from between some of the rocks that make up the island. A few small birds nest in a sickly looking tree that hadn't been there a moment ago. When Desmond looks up, the sky has turned a very pale blue. Animus Island is starting to come to life.

"I don't know how," Clay says quietly. "But you helped him. It's like I said, this island is a part of Subject One. I've never seen it like this before."

"It doesn't look all that much better," Desmond says doubtfully.

"Trust me," Clay says. "If you'd been here as long as I have, you'd see the differences." He leans down and picks up a blade of grass. "I haven't seen anything but gray here since I died," he says quietly. "Maybe he finally found what he was looking for."

"Me?" Desmond scoffs. "No."

"Well either way, you actually managed to make him happy." Clay says. "Good for you. Subject One, he's… he's one of us, you know? He's been through it all, the animus, the bleeding effect, everything. We have to look out for each other, because who else is going to?"

"Look out for each other," Desmond repeats glumly. "Subject One's dead. So are you."

"And still taking care of each other," Clay insists. "All of us crazy animus subjects." He flicks Desmond's ear. "So come on, Seventeen! Stop worrying."

Desmond sighs and gives up. So maybe it's not so bad, having someone that gets it looking out for him. Even if they are dead. And crazy. And weird. He wouldn't trust Clay to babysit his kids, or anything (if he'd had kids, obviously), but he can be a decent friend. "Shut up, Sixteen," he grumbles, and Clay laughs.

From that point on, for as long as Desmond is on Animus Island, he's vaguely aware of Subject One watching him. Watching over him?

After hearing what Clay has to say, Desmond finds he doesn't mind the idea so much.


	44. Chapter 44

He really should have done it earlier, but it takes Desmond almost two years to work up the courage to get back in the animus. Rebecca still has it in storage at one of the safe houses they use the most often, and every time they end up there after a mission or while traveling, Desmond tries. He really does. He'll go into the back room where the animus is, and look at it, and think about what he should be doing.

Six months after his arm is cut off, Desmond is able to work up the nerve to touch the animus. A year after that, he can sit in it without having flashbacks. And finally, almost two years to the day after he'd nearly died saving the world, Desmond decides he's ready. 

He knows how the animus works. Well, not really how it _works_ , but how to turn it on and start it up and not kill himself in the process. Which is basically the same thing. After all, how many times has he watched Rebecca set the thing up for (yet another) session? He knows what he's doing.

It takes a little bit of digging around to make absolutely sure he'll get back to Animus Island. After all, the last thing Desmond wants to do is accidentally end up in one of his ancestor's memories. That would… that would be hard.

But he eventually manages to get the animus set up the way he wants it to be, and waits impatiently as the island loads up around him. It takes a while, and more than once Desmond almost aborts the session and pulls himself out. This is a bad idea. This is going to hurt. Besides, the longer it takes to load the Island, the more Desmond is convinced that he's done something wrong. It had never taken this long to load the island while he was stuck in Ezio's memories.

Eventually it works, and Desmond sees immediately why it had taken so long.

Animus Island is almost unrecognizable. The gray on gray on gray of Desmond's memories is gone, and the island is covered in plants. Grasses and bushes and trees, flowers and ferns. A light wind blows through the island, bringing with it the smell of far off rain and flowers in bloom. Before, the island had been like something in the middle of winter. Dead and cold and still. Desmond had always felt like he was freezing then. Now, it's like the island has burst suddenly into spring, and the effect of the change is overwhelming. This is a place where Desmond wouldn't have minded spending time.

Desmond stands still for a moment, taking in the change. And then he goes looking for Subject One. It's not hard to find him; Desmond simply heads toward the part of the island with the most vibrant plants. And there he is, right in the middle of it all, laid out in a peaceful sleep. Desmond stops a few feet away, looking down at Subject One. He looks as changed as the island, although in his case there are significantly less plants growing on him. But he looks like a photo that's come into sharper focus. His features are more defined, and some color has come back into his skin.

Wow. Desmond really hadn't been expecting any of this.

Subject One wakes up and looks at Desmond. Desmond looks back at him. His eyes are the same color and nearly the exact same shape as Aveline's. Desmond squirms, a little nervous. There's always been something a little unnerving about Subject One. He's like… like something out of an old story, some mad, capricious spirit of the land. It's unnerving for Desmond to think that the island is as much Subject One as the man in front of him. "Hey," Desmond says. "You look… better."

For a second, Subject One doesn't react. Then he nods. "Y—yes. I have been try—tr—" He makes a face and forces the word out. " _Trying._ To be bett—better. I hoped you might c—come back. To visit."

"Well, I'm here," Desmond says feebly, and Subject One actually smiles.

"But you—" he flickers for a second and then solidifies with a grimace of effort. "You s— _shouldn't_ be here. Dangerous."

"I'm not going to stay," Desmond assures him (Subject One looks simultaneously disappointed and relieved). "But I wanted to tell you I met Aveline and Shay."

"I love them," Subject One says earnestly, immediately, and the passion in his voice is shocking in its intensity. "Both of them. I…" he breaks off, not finishing the sentence. This time, it doesn't seem so much like an animus induced stutter, more like he can't find the words to describe what he's feeling. "It's so hard," he says miserably. "To love someone that d—doesn't exist anymore, and wouldn't care about you if they did. But you—you can't stop loving them anyway, because they were never your feelings to begin with."

"They would care about you," Desmond says. "They're your family."

"Not—not the same." 

Well, no. Not if he's bleeding them the way Desmond thinks he is, pitifully in love with two people that are already happy with each other. Neither Shay nor Aveline need the pale imitation of one another that Subject One can offer them. But he needs them, Desmond can see it in Subject One's eyes. He remembers all the times he'd dropped in on Shay and Aveline in the early days of their relationship, holding desperately onto each like they were afraid to let go.

At least they have each other. Subject One is alone, he will always be alone, here on the Island.

"Hurts," Subject One says after a while. "H—hur— _hurts,_ Desmond."

"I know," Desmond says. "I… when I was in the animus, I fell in love with everyone my ancestors ever cared about. I know that it hurts." 

"Still?" Subject One asks, and Desmond shakes his head.

"I'm not bleeding anymore," he explains, glancing down at his arm. "Wouldn't recommend my methods, though."

"Arm. S—sorry."

"I don't mind that," Desmond mumbles. "But when I stopped bleeding, I stopped visiting, too."

"Oh." Some of the greenery around Subject One begins to wilt, and the breeze turns cold. "You—you're lonely now. I know."

"You told me to be grateful for my visitors," Desmond says. "But I wasn't. I didn't think they were real and I wanted them to go away."

"Stupid," Subject One scoffs, and Desmond nods. He can't argue.

They sit together a while after that, watching quietly as the beauty of the Island shrivels up and dies. "Th—thought…" Subject One won't look at Desmond. "Maybe Shay would visit you. Or Aveline. While you w—were here with me. Made everything beautiful. F- for them."

"Sorry to disappoint," Desmond mumbles.

"Could have met them," Subject One whispers. "But—gone again. Gone. Gone…" He hunches over, burying his face in his hands. "Never permitted t—to see them. Don't _understand_ …"

He looks pitiful, and the world is going gray again. And something in Desmond breaks a little. No. _No_. Absolutely not. The Island had been beautiful when Desmond first got here, Subject One had been happy, and watching both of them go flat, gray, dull, _dead_ , all over again, it's awful. He has to do something to help, and he refuses to leave the Island until it's at least as beautiful as it had been when he arrived.

Desmond leans down and picks a bright yellow flower growing near his feet, seconds before the grass around it goes limp and colorless. He holds it up to Subject One. "You made something beautiful," he says quietly. Subject One stares at the flower without any kind of a reaction. "Why are you letting it all die?"

"Doe—doesn't m—ma—doesn't matter. _They'll_ never see it now."

"But what about _you_?" Desmond demands. "Who cares if Aveline or Shay ever—no, listen!" Subject One is flinching away from him, disengaging from the conversation. Desmond grabs him by the shoulder and glares. "Who cares if either of them ever sees this place, or never meets you?"

"I ca—care," Subject One mumbles. "Love—need them—need— _need_ to see them."

"That's not even the bleeding effect talking," Desmond snaps, praying that he's right. "That's just you, digging yourself into your own head. Do you think that Aveline would have curled up and let herself die if Shay hadn't loved her? Or that Shay would have given up on everything without Aveline? They loved each other, _yes_. I'm not going to argue that. But they were strong people. They would have survived the heartbreak."

"I'm not," Subject One says. "Not strong." His whole body flickers alarmingly. "Not even here. Not real."

"You're descended from two of the strongest people I've ever met," Desmond says. "I refuse to believe that you can't pull yourself together and make yourself into something _beyond_ the two of them."

"But…" Subject One looks nervously up at Desmond. "Hurts."

"It will always hurt, I think," Desmond says softly. "But it will hurt less when you're a little bit more you and a little bit less them. I'm not telling you to forget Aveline and Shay." He thinks, bizarrely, about Lucy. "Maybe you shouldn't ever try to forget the people you cared about. No matter what the circumstances are.  You don't forget, but you move on. You can bring this place back to life, if you want to. And you can do it for your own enjoyment, not on some one-in-a-million chance that Aveline or Shay will see it."

Subject One hesitates. Then he reaches out and takes the flower from Desmond. Looks at it. He seems to be thinking hard, and continues to do so for a very long time. Finally he nods slowly and looks back at Desmond. Around him, the grass is starting to very slowly grow ack. When Subject One speaks, his voice is steady.

"Will you visit me again?"

"I'll try," Desmond promises. "But I'll always be alone. Shay and Aveline—they're gone. Neither of us will ever see them again."

"That's okay," Subject One interrupts. It's not, and they both know it. But at least Subject One is pretending it is, now. Maybe someday he'll even believe it. "You're a good visitor. You were a friend to them, and you're trying to help me. I don't know why you'd bother, but thank you."

Desmond smiles sadly at him. "I'm bothering," he says. "Because I miss them too."


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you see any random nonsense in this chapter, please let me know. For some reason it keeps uploading with random junk letters in the middle of paragraphs. I think I got them all out, but frankly it's almost 1AM and words are hard.

Desmond has used the apple three times since almost dying. The first time was just after he got out of the hospital, one arm and seven friends short of being whole. Desperate, and without any real plan in mind, Desmond had grabbed the apple and wished as hard as he could. He'd been hurt and raw and confused in those early days, a bundle of nerves exposed to open air, reeling away from every new hurt.

He'd _needed_ the apple to bring him back to his visitors, and it had. He'd seen, for a few impossibly hopeful moments, Altair and Ezio. He'd thought that maybe things were going to be okay. That they'd all go back to normal. He should have known better. 

At the end of the visit, Desmond had woken, shaking and shivering, on the floor of the safe house. The apple was clutched in his hand tight enough to leave a pattern of indentations on his palm, and his father was drowning down at him in something that almost looked like concern.

"Give it to me," William had ordered, and then when Desmond had done nothing more than moan a feeble protest in response, he'd leaned over and pulled it out of Desmond's hand. "It's dangerous," he'd scolded Desmond, in the moment before he took Desmond's only link to his visitors away from him.

After that, he'd hidden the apple. Desmond had found it, used it to visit Connor and Haytham in a weird world where Washington was king and Connor was sort of a wolf. Apparently they'd made the world together, out of the apple—sort of seems like Connor had gotten the short end of the stick there, but then Desmond's end of the stick is so short he'd need a microscope to see it.

Again, he'd woken up to an upset father standing over him. This time, William was more angry than concerned, and they'd argued and shouted before William took the apple and hid it a second time.

Desmond had found it again. This time it had taken him to an unfortunate scene of two Shays enthusiastically making love to Aveline, which was far more discouraging than William’s disappointed "It's like you _want_ to lose your mind again" when Desmond woke after.

This time when his father hid the apple, Desmond hadn't gone after it straight away. He’s getting disconcertingly good at finding the thing, so that isn’t really the problem. He just wants to save his next apple use for a point in his life when he’s so desperate for visitors that he won’t even mind dropping in on another horrifying threesome, or his dad’s increasingly upset reactions. That had been the plan, anyway. Before he’d gone back into the animus to talk to Subject One, and realized that there’s someone that needs to see his visitors more than he does.

He sends an email to Clay the morning after he sneaks off to use the animus, explaining his conversation with Subject One and how… how _bad_ he’d seemed. Desmond had sort of hoped Subject One might be doing better, after all this time. Desmond’s finally free of the bleeding effect himself, and Clay’s doing better now that he’s got the whole internet to play with instead of being stuck in an animus. Subject One is as crazy as he’s ever been. Or lonely, or sad, or… something.

The point is, he needs to see Aveline or Shay or preferably both. Desmond isn’t at all sure how that’s going to turn out, but he’s cautiously optimistic. There’s always the chance Subject One will just throw himself on his ancestors and make an ass out of himself in the process, but Desmond doesn’t want to think so. He wants to believe the man is better than that. Hopefully, having Shay and Aveline acknowledge _him_ will help him come to terms with himself and his feelings. The only question left is how to get Shay and Aveline to Desmond, and from there getting them to see Subject One. The first part shouldn’t be too hard. Desmond has used the apple to get _to_ his visitors three times now, how much harder can it be to bring them to him instead? As for getting them in the same place as Subject One, though… Subject One can’t leave the animus, not even to hang out on the Internet with Clay. Desmond had tried, back when he’d pulled the data that makes up Clay out of the animus in the first place. Subject One had been too fragmented to move.

Luckily, it turns out that Clay has an idea.

 _Hey Desmond_ , he writes. _I think you’re right to worry about Subject One. Now you’ve got me worried too, and I think you’re right about letting him see his ancestors. I know it helped me a lot when I got to see Ezio. It was like the part of me that was still bleeding this scared little boy that missed his dad was able to finally rest. Hopefully Shay and Aveline will do the same thing for Subject One._

_About sticking them in the animus—there’s a whole bunch of reasons that’s a bad idea, but how about using Helix? I’m not sure if you know about it, but it’s this new thing Abstergo’s come up with. They turn some poor guy’s memories into a game and sell it on this Helix console for people all over the world to play. The assassins are using it too. Right now I think they’re looking through some French guy’s memories. The point is, Helix is just a headset. So if you got a couple of them, you could hook them up to the animus and get both of them to the Island at the same time. And there’s a way smaller rate of people going crazy on Helix than in the animi. Make sense?_

It does make sense, and more than that it seems like a good idea. Well, except for the one thing that’s sort of bothering Desmond.

 _Thanks_ , he writes back to Clay.  _I’ll try this Helix thing. But—you said there’s_ less _people going crazy. What exactly does that mean?_

Clay’s response somehow manages to sound uncertain and hesitant, despite coming almost at once.

_I’ve been doing some hacking around Abstergo’s computers. I KNOW I KNOW, it’s super dangerous, blah blah blah I’m going to get caught—but I’m finding some interesting stuff. We’ll have to talk about it later. Like, I’m pretty sure they’re still looking for animus subjects. I keep finding references to a Subject Eighteen, but I haven’t been able to nail it down. But anyway—this is a document of theirs I found talking about reports of bleeding effect with Helix. Something like half a percent of people that use it complain of some level of symptoms, and it looks like Abstergo decided that was an acceptable loss. Except they’ve sold hundreds of thousands of these Helix things, so… well, you can do the math on how many people are going to go crazy._

_I guess it’s up to you if you want to expose Shay and Aveline to that. It shouldn’t be too bad if they’re just going to Animus Island. No memories there, nothing for them to start bleeding._

Which is great for Shay and Aveline, obviously, but not so great for the thousands of people Helix must already be driving crazy. Desmond frowns and tries not to think about it. He has enough other problems right now.

Desmond is the only one in the safe house today, so it’s a matter of less than an hour to track down the apple and the Helix headsets, and to set up the animus. But then he just sits in the chair, running his fingers over the apple, hesitating. If this doesn’t work… if…

No. It’ll work. It has to.

He closes his eyes and focuses on the energy in the apple. He’s done this three times before, it’s not hard—he just reaches out, feeling for visitors. It’s hard for Desmond to explain, even to himself, exactly what this means. Maybe his dad has a point about how dangerous the apple is, because there’s nothing good about how the apple seems to worm into Desmond’s thoughts and sort of nudge him toward whatever he’s trying to do.

But it’s helping him, so for now, he lets it happen. Desmond reaches outward with his mind and with the apple, and stops when he’s pretty sure he’s found the right people (in his mind, the apple is whispering _yes, yes, visitors… yes…_ which feels a little bit like nails on a chalkboard sounds). He takes a deep breath, and starts to pull. And he pulls, and he pulls, as hard as he can, until finally—

Desmond’s eyes snap open and _yes!_ Aveline and Shay are there, and (bonus!) they’re fully clothed. He bounces out of the animus, grinning, and then abruptly stops when he almost trips over a small child.

"Hey!" the boy in question—maybe four years old—runs to Aveline, grabbing at her leg and whining. "Maman!"

A second kid, this one a girl and a little bit smaller, tilts her head way up to study Desmond. "Are you an avisible friend?" she asks.

Shay leans over and hugs her reassuringly (she doesn’t look like she needs reassuring, she looks wildly curious). "This is Desmond," he tells her.

"Hi, Desmond," Jeanne says.

"And I’m sure he’s going to explain exactly what we’re all doing here."

Desmond’s brain gradually starts working again. "These are your kids?" he asks.

"Rory and Jeanne," Aveline says.

"Right." Desmond looks down at Jeanne. She looks up at him. "Um—I’m sorry about all this," he tells her, because she seems to be expecting something of him.

"They’ll survive," Aveline says cheerfully. "We all visited when we were children, didn’t we? None of us thought it was strange. Most of us don’t even remember it."

"I would like to know _why_ we’re all here, though," Shay says again.

"Oh. Right." He nods and starts explaining everything as quickly as he can. Halfway through, Jeanne kicks Rory in the leg and they run off somewhere, chasing each other. Desmond watches them go, frowning. "I don’t know why your kids came with you," he says. "I didn’t mean it—the apple kind of has a mind of it’s own, and I guess… maybe it just pulled them with you because they were nearby, I don’t know."

"Desmond really," Aveline says. "It’s alright. This isn’t permanent—" she looks briefly sad, and Desmond frowns too. He’ll be sorry when they have to leave. "And I’m sure the kids will be fine when we’re home again."

"Why can they see you?" Shay asks. "Isn’t this a visit?"

Desmond shrugs helplessly. "It doesn’t exactly feel like one. I mean, I was _aiming_ for visitors, but maybe that doesn't necessarily mean this is a visit? I mean, Connor got sent to an alternate universe through an apple once, didn't he? Maybe this one just pulled the four of you into this century."

"That would explain it," Shay says. "I guess. Maybe." He eyes the apple mistrustfully. "Do you think pieces of Eden can do that, though?"

"I think it _did_ ," Desmond says. "But not for long." He can feel it gradually draining him, and he knows he won’t be able to keep everyone here for long. Part of his mind is wondering if there's some artifact that can move people around more permanently-- he'd like to end up in the same century as his visitors somehow-- but that's a problem for later.

"Then we should…" Aveline takes a quick, nervous breath, her eyes flicking toward the animus. "We should do this now, shouldn’t we? Talking to your Subject One, I mean."

"You’ll do it then?" Desmond asks.

"Yes," Aveline says, and Shay nods. "He’s hurting, isn’t he? And…" she reaches for Shay’s hand, finds it without needing to look. "He’s sort of ours."

"Thank you," Desmond says. "Really—I appreciate it a lot. And I just want to say, in case I don't get a chance later, that I’m really glad I got to see you again."

Aveline smiles at him, and Shay raises his voice, calling for Rory and Jeanne. Desmond starts setting up the animus and helix equipment, half listening to Shay and Aveline talking to their kids. It still seems strange to Desmond, hearing them play the part of parents instead of assassins or templars. It's also a little strange to see them fully dressed.

"Papa," Jeanne complains when she and Rory come running back into the room. "There’s no one to play with here!"

Shay laughs a little. "Play with Rory."

"I _always_ play with Rory," Jeanne says. "He’s boring!"

"Hey!"

"There's no kids here!" Jeanne goes on. She points accusingly at Desmond. " _He_ should have kids!"

"He doesn’t, though," Shay explains patiently. "Some people don’t."

"Well he _should_."

"He doesn't, Jeanne," Shay says patiently. "I know you want a friend to play with, but you're just going to have to be patient and play with Rory for now."

Jeanne pouts. Then Rory pushes her and calls her a name, and it takes Shay and Aveline quite a while to calm them down and convince them to be good for a while. By the time the kids are quiet (ish), Desmond has everything set up and ready. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asks again. "Subject One isn’t… he’s not easy to talk to. And with your kids here, maybe—"

"We're doing this now," Aveline says firmly. She grabs a headset off the table next to the animus, gives it a deeply unhappy look, and pulls it on. Shay follows suit, and Desmond just stares at them for a second. Something warm is spreading through his chest, and he thinks how lucky he is to have (or... have had. Past tense) these people as his visitors. Here they are, and they're not mad at him for accidentally dragging their kids along, they're just going to jump into something dangerous and unknown for him, and for Subject One. They're genuinely good people.

And _God_ , Desmond misses them. It's not fair that they're here (really, actually here, maybe, thanks to the confusing way the apple works) and that Desmond can't even spend time with them. He sighs, all too aware that the apple uses too much energy to keep his visitors here for long, and starts up the animus. For the second time in two days, he climbs into the animus and starts the program for Animus Island. He hears a little gasp from Aveline (and _hates_ himself for bringing her into an animus). But then the world loads around them, bringing back the empty, gray world of the Island. Desmond is disappointed to see it like this, instead of green like it had been before. But he's not really surprised. Yesterday, he'd left Subject One with the news that he'd _never_ get to see Shay or Aveline. No wonder he's upset.

"This is an animus?" Aveline asks, and Desmond jumps a little. When he turns around, both Aveline and Shay are standing behind him and it's so weird to be in the animus with somebody else, especially these two.

"Yes," Desmond says. "This is what shows up when you're not looking at anyone's memories in particular."

"And this is where Subject One…" Shay hesitates. "Does he have a name?"

"Not that he remembers," Desmond says.

"But this is where he lives?"

If it could really be called living. Desmond nods anyway. "I don't know exactly where he'll be, though," he says. "He… oh."

He's just spotted Subject One. The man is standing several feet behind Shay and Aveline, an absolutely impossible expression on his face. He's pale as a ghost, shaking and flickering, and he just keeps staring and staring at Shay and Aveline.

Aveline turns first, following Desmond's gaze, and sees Subject One. Desmond knows the moment their eyes meet, because Subject One sinks suddenly to the ground, shaking his head and breathing hard. Desmond hurries to his side, crouching over Subject One and putting his hand on Subject One's back. "Hey," he says softly. "Hey, are you alright? I thought you wanted this."

"D—d—did. Do." He takes a deep breath. "Too—too much, m—maybe."'

Desmond hears footsteps coming up behind him, and Shay crouches down next to the two of them. Aveline hangs back for a moment, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable. Subject One looks up at her, and turns very red. "Please," he begs. "Do—don't… don't be afraid of me. Ca—can't love me, I know." He looks miserable at the admission, but keeps going. "But don't be afra—afraid."

"I'm not," Aveline insists, but Desmond thinks she looks at least a little nervous. To her credit, she fights it off and sits down with the rest of them. "I just don't like the animus."

"Me n—neither," Subject One admits. He smiles bashfully. "Why are you h—here, then?" He jerks his head sideways in a sharp movement toward Desmond. "Said it wasn't possible."

"It's complicated," Shay says. As if it isn't always. "But we came to see you—"

Subject One's head snaps up toward Shay, and he's suddenly fighting off a smile. "You came to see _me_?" he asks.

"Well, yes." Aveline reaches out for his hand, and Subject One takes it. He's almost reverent, like he's receiving a great gift, some royal treasure or mythic relic. "Desmond said you were in trouble."

"And you cared?"

"Of course," Shay says. Subject One is practically _glowing_ now. "You're family, aren't you?" Aveline nods, and leans over to give him a brief, chaste kiss on the forehead. He leans into the touch, bowing his head and closing his eyes.

"Love you," he whispers. "Don't want to. Can't stop. Want to hold you, make love to you. Wake up next to you every morning." He looks up at Shay. "You—loved you first. Felt like it would burn me up in—inside. Too much, too strong." Subject One looks between Aveline and Shay. "L—lucky. You have each other. Can't love me like that." And suddenly he's staring at the ground, nervous and blushing like a schoolboy. "Can you..?"

Neither Shay nor Aveline answers him for a long moment, and he lets out an enormous sigh, so large that his entire body seems to deflate. "Had to ask," he mumbles hoarsely. "Had to—had to know—"

Shay reaches out and puts an arm on Subject One's shoulder. "Not like… like that," he says softly. "But I don't think you really want to, do you? You're not Aveline, and you're not me. You're…" he scowls. "I can't call you Subject One. You're a human being, you are your own _person_. You deserve a name."

"Don't remember."

"Owen," Aveline pipes up. Shay and Subject One both turn to look at her in surprise, and she shrugs. "Owen, One… I mean, they sound a bit similar, don't they? And it's better than nothing."

Subject One nods. He tilts his head sideways, mouthing the name in silent consideration. Then he nods, tentative but accepting. "Ow—Owen."

"Owen," Aveline repeats. She nods her head, almost businesslike, as if she does this every day. "I think it works for you."

He flushes again, although he's visibly trying to keep his composure now. Desmond, feeling awkward and unnecessary on the edge of the group, backs up a few steps to give the three of them their space. He can't stop watching Owen's hand, the one that's not still holding Aveline's. It keeps reaching towards Aveline, then Shay, then dropping back to the ground. His mouth works soundlessly, and then finally he manages words. "Do you have to go?"

"Soon," Shay says. "Maybe not quite yet. But… Owen, listen." He reaches for the man's other hand, so that Owen has one hand holding onto both of them. "When Desmond brought me and Aveline into this century, he messed it up a little."

"Hey!" Desmond protests. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Shay ignores him. "He brought two of our children with us."

"Which?" Owen asks.

"Rory and Jeanne," Aveline says. She's looking at Shay curiously, obviously not quite sure where this is going. Well, that's fine. Neither is Desmond.

"It made me think about how they're very different people," Shay says. "Jeanne is… well, she's my baby."

"Gave birth to her," Owen grimaces. "Didn't like that memory."

Aveline bursts out laughing, and Shay makes a face. "Well I didn't exactly think anyone else would be looking at the memory at the time! Anyway, my point is that Jeanne is easy for me to get along with. She likes me, I like her, we understand each other. Rory, on the other hand, is a little terror. I don't think he's ever done anything I told him to without arguing first, he's constantly climbing things and falling off things and I _swear_ he's trying to give me a heart attack."

"Clearly he's going to be an assassin when he's older," Aveline says fondly. "Already killing off templars."

Shay scoffs and nudges her with his shoulder. It's an easy, familiar gesture that Owen watches almost jealously. Shay goes on, grinning a bit. "But I love both of them. I love Jeanne because she adores me. I love Rory because he drives me absolutely up the wall. I love Phillipe because he tries _so hard_ at everything he does. And I love Tomas because… well, he's two. Mostly he just runs into walls and then laughs when he falls down. Which is slightly worrisome." He hesitates a second. "But I love him anyway. I love all my children, and the way I see it, you're our descendant. Family. So I'm sorry I can't love you in the same way I love Aveline. But I love you for being strong, and for surviving. From what Desmond's told me, you've had sort of a rough life. And, ah—also an unenjoyable death. But you're still here. Still fighting. So I love you for that."

"Love… love _me_?" Owen echoes. He looks at Shay, then at Aveline. Aveline nods.

"I can't think of a better way to say it," she says. "But… yea. It's not what you want, but—"

"It's better," Owen interrupts. And then the island explodes.

It's not the fiery, destructive kind of explosion. More like a kind of… bursting outward, that's the best way Desmond can think of to describe it. He's seen the island flower and go gray according to Owen's moods before, but this is different. This is every inch of the island, all at once, bursting into full, colorful bloom. And it's more than that. Until now, the island has been mostly flat, and very small. But it's growing, outward and upward, and it's not until the whole transformation is over that Desmond really has a chance to take it all in.

Animus Island has never looked so much like a real place. The four of them are standing on an open beach, smooth sand underfoot and gentle waves lapping softly along the shore. There's a forest just inland, thick and green and full of trees. Beyond that are tall cliffs, and Desmond can see a rather impressive waterfall tumbling into a pool below. Here and there, Desmond can see plants and (are those actual _animals_? Here? So far Desmond hasn't seen anything alive on the island that didn't come in through an animus) that he's pretty sure don't exist on Earth. A wide, winding path leads from the beach into the forest, and even though he knows it's not real, Desmond almost wants to find out where it goes. It's just that kind of place—the sort that seems to _promise_ that if you just explore a little bit, you'll find something new and exciting. It's… well, it's quite frankly more than he'd thought Owen capable of.

"Wow," Desmond whispers, and only then does he turn back and look at Owen. He's standing now, wearing an expression Desmond almost doesn't recognize on his face.

Confidence. He looks confident.

"Thank you," he says earnestly. "I really needed to hear that… well, that you could love me for me. For being who I am, and not who the animus says I have to be." He hugs first Shay, and then Aveline, and then (unexpectedly) Desmond.

"Are you okay?" Desmond asks.

"I'm a dead man living in a machine and I'm hopelessly in love with two of my ancestors," Owen says. He sounds surprisingly cheerful about the whole thing. "But it's not the _only_ thing in my head anymore. There's space for me again."

"Well… good," Desmond says. "I think. Because I'm going to have to pull us out and send them home again."

Owen nods. "I think I can live with that," he says. "I'll be lonely, but… I'll live."

Desmond opens his mouth to offer some meaningless platitude, but then pauses when he suddenly has an idea. "I have to get them back home," he says. "But then I'll be back, alright? I don't think you'll have to be lonely for long."

"What?"

But Desmond doesn't get a chance to answer before Shay and Aveline descend on Owen to say goodbye, and then Desmond pulls them all out of the animus. Jeanne and Rory have somehow managed to tear the room to pieces while they were out of it, and one of them has scribbled a drawing in sharpie on one of the walls. It looks like a horse. Or maybe a chicken. Aveline points to it and offers the explanation that it must be a turkey because it's wearing a little hood. "They like to put assassin's hoods on Connor's turkeys when we visit the homestead."

She ruffles Rory's hair (he squeaks in protest) and Desmond kind of squints at them in confusion. He doesn't really understand why dressing up turkeys and drawing them in walls is a matter of pride. Maybe it's a parent thing, in which case Desmond is _never_ going to understand it—the whole debacle with Lucy has kind of scared him off women for a while, so kids are out of the question.

It's sort of too bad. He wouldn't have minded a tiny little person running around. Looking up to him. Relying on him. Loving him.

Then he remembers Owen, and feels bad for feeling lonely. Life could be a lot worse.

He's swaying on his feet by this point, exhausted from using the apple, so he says a far too quick goodbye to Shay and Aveline (and Rory, and Jeanne, both of whom surprise him with long, tight hugs). And then he lets them go. Pulls away from the apple and sends them hurtling back to their own time.

It's very quiet in the safe house after that.

Desmond spends about an hour and a half cleaning the turkey drawing off the wall (he gains a new hatred for sharpies in the process) and then spends a few hours emailing back and forth with Clay about the idea he's had to help Owen. When he's been assured that it'll be possible to pull off, Desmond goes back into the animus (for the third time in two days—this is starting to get unpleasant).

He finds Owen easily this time, despite the newly expanded size of the island, and sits down next to him. "So I've had an idea," he says. "Abstergo is mass producing games based on animus data now. They call it Helix, and according to Clay—you remember Clay, don't you?"

"Sure," Owen says. "He was here for ages."

"Well he says there's already been kind of a lot of people coming down with the bleeding effect thanks to it," Desmond explains. "And I just checked with him, and apparently he's figured out a way to sort of link up the program you're in—all this, the whole island, along with you—to the helix machines of people that are bleeding."

"What would that do?" Owen asks.

"It would mean there would be a whole lot of people coming through here," Desmond explains. "You'd never have to be alone. And you'd be helping people." He looks around at the island, then back at Owen. "It just seems like the kind of place that would help people get better."

"It would!" Owen says brightly. "And I could help too, I think. I mean, I've been bleeding for— what year is it?"

"2014."

"For thirty three years," Owen says. "I think I know a thing or two about the bleeding effect." He hesitates, just a second. "Could you really do all that?"

"I really could," Desmond says. "Well, Clay could. If you needed a drink I'd be the guy to ask, but he's the guy to go to for computer…" he gropes vaguely for the technical term, and can't find it. "…stuff. But Owen, I have to ask. Is this all temporary? I know it's harsh, but are you going to be back to mooning over Shay and Aveline in a week, or a month? Because if you're going to have people _depending_ on you—"

Owen interrupts Desmond then, and everything about him, his face, his voice, the look in his eyes, it's all absolutely certain. "If people are depending on me, then I'll be there for them. And besides, I know that Shay and Aveline actually do love me now. I'm part of a _family_. I'll make them proud."

Desmond nods. "I know you will."

Owen beams at him, and nods, and when Desmond leaves the animus that day, Clay is already hard at work setting everything up. By the end of the week, people showing symptoms of the bleeding effect are being automatically rerouted onto the island when they try to connect to Abstergo's networks.

At the end of the month, Rebecca makes a passing comment to Desmond about a rumor going around the internet. "We knew the bleeding effect was going to be a problem when Abstergo started mass producing helix," she explains. "But we didn't think there was anything we could do about it."

Desmond makes a sympathetic noise.

"But there are these rumors floating around online," Rebecca says cheerfully. "About some island where people can go to get well. I guess it's actually _helping_ them, Desmond—someone's found a way to help people get over the bleeding effect, do you know how amazing that is? I can't even imagine how, but I'm glad _someone_ figured it out."

"Me too," Desmond agrees. "Good for Owen."

"Who?"

"Ah—never mind."

She gives him a funny look, and changes the subject. Desmond just smiles.


	46. Chapter 46

Templar initiations aren't exactly big, gaudy affairs, and Haytham knows everyone at his except for the big man with the dark skin that stands in the corner and doesn't say anything. But no one says anything to him, either, and so Haytham simply assumes he's supposed to be there. After the ceremony, Haytham seeks him out, curious to know what this man's business is supposed to be.

"Who are you?" he asks. "And what are you doing here?"

"I…" he trails off, doesn't answer. Haytham crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows. Slowly but surely, his interest is being piqued. A mysterious man that just shows up out of nowhere, doesn't say anything, and won't answer questions? Interesting. The man _almost_ smiles, which annoys Haytham.

"What?" he demands. "Are you laughing at me?"

"Of course not," the man says. "You just reminded me of my father there, for a moment."

"Oh." They stand there, staring at one another. "What's your name?"

"Connor."

Progress. "Connor what?"

"Just Connor."

"Why don't you have a last name?"

Connor sighs. "That's not the point," he says.

"Well it's just that you don't seem to plan on getting to the point anytime soon," Haytham says. "So if you'll excuse me, I'll just be going—"

But Connor reaches out and grabs Haytham's elbow just as Haytham is turning to leave. "Wait," he says. "I'm just visiting, I won't be here long. But I wanted to… to say I was proud of you. For—" his eyes flick to the ring Haytham is now wearing on his finger, heavy and cold in its newness. "You know. That."

"Why?" Haytham asks. "I don't even know you. And you just looked at my ring like it's a snake that's going to bite you."

"Look—no. Never mind." Connor shakes his mind. "Whether or not you believe me, whether or not you care, I wanted to tell you that… that you've done well to get here. Especially so young. And I know you'll do well, so…" He takes a deep breath. "Congratulations."

Haytham shakes his head and turns away. What a strange man. Unhinged, maybe.

When Haytham glances over his shoulder, Connor is simply gone.

-//-

Years pass. Haytham fathers a son and then learns that son will kill him. They argue, and fight, Haytham despairs of ever having a good relationship with him. At least, until he gets older, close to the end of his own life, and starts visiting an elderly Connor. It is here, finally, with an elderly Connor, that Haytham is able to talk to his son. They have long, peaceful visits now, sitting on the porch in front of the homestead. Sometimes they talk. Connor likes to watch the homestead and its people, the innocents that live there, and the assassins that protect them.

By this point, the very first people Connor had brought into the homestead have children or grandchildren. Connor knows them all by name, and tells Haytham stories of them as they go past the house. But he's really proud of his assassins. Haytham knows Connor had waited a long time before taking people into the homestead to train, but he's taken to it quite well. The pupils he takes in are few, but they're well trained, certainly enough to impress Haytham.

"You've done well with all of them," he tells Connor one day. Connor is white haired and thin, but his eyes are still bright. "Matthew, especially."

"Hmm." Connor sighs and shakes his head (although he's smiling proudly). "He's made a good assassin. And he's a good person. I just wish…"

"Wish what?"

"It may sound hypocritical, coming from me," Connor says seriously. "But I wish he'd find a wife. I would have liked grandchildren."

"You'll have them eventually," Haytham says. "Desmond, remember?"

"Then I hope I live to see them," Connor grumbles. "He says there's a woman, but I've never met her…" And so the conversation goes, rambling on from one topic to another. But something about the pride in Connor's voice when he talks about his son nags at Haytham, pulling at some long forgotten memory.

"You were there," he says abruptly. "On the day I became a templar."

"What?" Connor frowns at him. "It was a visit."

"But you said you were proud of me," Haytham says. "For being a templar."

Connor doesn't quite look at him. "That was after I'd killed you," he explains quietly. "And after I'd had time to think. I don't agree with most of what the templars do or believe. But I know you do, and it's important to you. So… working hard for something that's important to you. Becoming the man you are. That's why I was proud that day. You're my father, for better or worse, and I'm old enough now that I can't imagine you any other way. And I… wouldn't want you to change." He almost smiles. "Besides, I can't imagine you being an assassin any more than I can imagine myself as a templar."

"No," Haytham agrees.

They go back to sitting in contented, companionable silence. But now Haytham is smiling.

His son is proud of him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DECEMBER 4TH, 11:59 PM. JUST BARELY MANAGED TO GIVE HAYTHAM A HAPPY CHAPTER BEFORE THE END OF HIS BIRTHDAY


	47. Chapter 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An Edward and Aveline challenge chapter

Edward is bored and normally he'd have welcomed a visit, but this one starts with Aveline shouting into his face so it's not going on his list of top ten best visits of all time. He takes a hurried step back and opens his mouth to ask what he's done wrong this time, but she shoves a finger in his face without looking at him. Edward nods quickly—message received, shut up and wait—and Aveline carries right on with her shouting.

Edward has _never_ heard her this angry. She just goes on and on yelling, and Edward settles back against a wall to try and figure out what's going on. The person Aveline's so mad at is her son—Edward thinks it's the youngest one, but he sort of has a hard time remembering which one is which unless they're all together. The boy might be about fourteen or fifteen, but he's wearing overly large clothes that make him look smaller and younger. He's sort of slouched up against the wall, staring at the ground instead of at his mother, not saying a word as she rails on at him about being irresponsible and putting his life in danger.

"What were you _thinking_?" Aveline demands at last, and… Tomas, _that's_ his name, looks up at her. Then back down, which Edward doesn't blame him for because he certainly wouldn't be looking at Aveline if she were glaring at _him_ like that.

"I dunno," he says.

"Tomas," Aveline says, in a remarkable imitation of patience. "That worked when you were five, it doesn't work now. Why did you steal a ship?"

"He stole a ship?" Edward asks, suddenly perking up. "Good for him!" Aveline narrows her eyes at Edward, and he shuts up again.

"I just thought it'd be fun," Tomas mutters.

"You could have been arrested for piracy!" Aveline shouts at him. "You might _still_ be arrested for piracy! Do you know where your father is right now?"

"Trying to come up with something to shout at me for that you haven't already thought of," Tomas says.

"No, Tomas! He is on the _Morrigan_ , chasing the pirate hunters that you managed to piss off during your time playing at being a sailor."

"I wasn't _playing_ , mom," Tomas interrupts. "I know how to sail! I'm good at it, even dad says so."

"If you wanted to go sailing, you should have talked to your father."

Tomas makes a face. "But I don't want to do what dad does," he protests. "Templar stuff is boring. And assassin stuff is boring too! I just want to sail to new places and sink ships and take all their stuff. What's so wrong with that?"

"Go to your room," Aveline tells him.

"Mom, come on—"

"Room, now!"

Tomas makes a face that is 100% teenager, and shuffles off upstairs. Aveline shouts "And change your clothes!" up after him.

"They're cool!" he shouts back down.

"Tomas Edward Cormac!"

There's a moment of silence, and Edward imagines Tomas weighing the consequences of ignoring the dreaded full name. "Fine!" he shouts at last, and then he slams his door for good measure.

"Your son's middle name is Edward?" Edward asks, when he and Aveline are alone.

"Yes," she snaps. "And we should have known better."

"Why?" Edward asks. "Do you really think he picked up pirating because you named him after me?"

"No," Aveline admits. She sinks into a nearby chair and Edward sits down near her. "But I'm sure you've managed to be a bad influence on him somehow."

"He can't even see me," Edward points out. "How could I possibly have been a bad influence?"

"I don't know," Aveline says, and all the anger has gone out of her voice. Instead, there's a hopelessness there that Edward doesn't like at all. "But I thought we raised him better than that. I don't know why he thinks it's alright to go around sinking ships and killing and stealing just because it suits him, but…" she sighs and shakes her head. "He wants to be a pirate."

"At least it sounds like he'll be good at it," Edward says. "He's what, fifteen? And already stealing ships? _And_ he's got pirate hunters coming after him?"

"Yes," Aveline mutters. "We're so very proud."

She does not sound proud. She sounds sarcastic.

"It's not like turning pirate is the worst thing he could do with his life," Edward says. "I know you're not overly fond of piracy. But you trust him, don’t you?"

"Tomas? I… well, I suppose. He's always been a little…" she hesitates. "I don't know. He's the troublemaker, I suppose. But he's not a bad person."

"Then he'll be fine." Edward pats her on the shoulder. "You and Shay are good people. I know you've raised him well. So it doesn't matter if he wants to be a pirate or an assassin or a… a dressmaker."

"A _dressmaker_?"

"Point is," Edward goes on. "Whatever he chooses to do with his life, he's still got everything you and Shay ever taught him knocking around in his head. He's not the kind to go around killing people just because he can. I can tell."

"You think so?"

"Oh, sure. The looting and robbing, no problem. But he doesn't seem like a killer." He hugs Aveline, because she looks like she needs one, and they keep hugging until Tomas comes sheepishly back downstairs. He's changed his clothes, and looks confused.

"Mom? Am I interrupting something?" He takes a couple steps forward, looking confused until Edward and Aveline stop hugging each other.

"No," she says. "No, Tomas, I'm fine. What did you want?"

"I'm sorry," he mutters. "I don't want to make you angry, I just… I want to sail, like dad does. But I don't want anyone telling me where to go or what to do there. If I sail for a country, doesn't matter if it's in a navy or as a privateer, I'll just be doing what they want. Same for if I decided to be a templar, or an assassin. Merchants are boring, so I just thought—pirate. And not all pirates are bad, right? I can be a good person _and_ a pirate, can't I?"

Aveline's looking at Edward when she answers, not at Tomas. "I suppose so," she says. "I've met one or two decent pirates in my life."

"Excuse me!" Edward protests. _"_ Just _decent?"_

"Mom…" Tomas fidgets a little. "Will you and dad still… I mean, you'll still love me if I'm a pirate?"

"We would love you no matter what you did," Aveline promises. "Although I wish you'd choose something else."

Tomas grins crookedly. "I'll think about it some more, if it'll make you feel better?"

"It will," Aveline agrees. "And you'll have plenty of time to do exactly that while you're grounded."

"Grounded? Mom, I'm a pirate!"

"At least until your father gets home," she says. "You did steal a ship, remember. Now go wash up for supper."


	48. Chapter 48

Desmond is sprawled out on the floor of the temple when Altair comes to visit him. He's facedown on the floor, mumbling to himself and occasionally twitching, his hands curled into fists so tight the fingernails cut into his palms. Altair can see blood dripping slowly from them, onto the floor. Cautiously, he crouches down next to Desmond and feels for a pulse. It's faster than it should be, and Desmond's skin is clammy and cold under Altair's fingers. "You're ill," Altair says. "What's wrong?"

Desmond turns his head to look at him, and a chill runs down Altair's spine. It's not… it's not _Desmond's_ face. His expression is blank. Empty. There is no emotion there, no recognition. His eyes drift vaguely toward Altair's face, then lose focus. "What's my name?" Desmomd asks.

Altair looks at him, confused. "Desmond."

Desmond blinks. Once, twice—he almost looks like he's trying to process this. "No," he says at last. "That doesn't sound right."

"It is."

"No…" A thin line creases Desmond's forehead, almost a frown. "I don't think so. He's here in my head with everyone else. But I don't want him. What's the _point_ of being Desmond?"

Altair stares at him. "What sort of question is that?" he asks.

"Desmond never did anything." His face still won't move. It's just blank and unfocused. "He just let everyone else hurt him and use him. He wanted to fight back and he never even tried. Just ran away and cried. He was always so weak."

"Don't—"

"He wouldn't even believe in his visitors," Desmond goes on relentlessly. "He wanted them more than anything. But he was always so afraid they would turn out to be his imagination, he could never even admit that to himself. How much he needed them. They tried to help him and he pushed them away." For the first time, a little bit of emotion creeps into his voice. Derisive. Impatient. _"Moron."_

"Stop it," Altair says urgently. He can't just sit here and listen to Desmond talk about himself like this. Like he's nothing. And in the past tense, Altair can't help noticing, like Desmond has already written himself off as a dead man. It would be hard enough from anyone else, but from Desmond himself, it's just… _no_. "Desmond, don't talk like that."

"I told you already," Desmond says. "I'm not Desmond. He's awful. I don't want him. There are lots of people in my head, and I don't have to be that one."

"When you say there are lots of people," Altair says hesitantly. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"Ezio," Desmond says. "Connor. Altair—no." For a second, he looks confused. "I think that's you. And father—Haytham. Him. And… Desmond. There's so many—too many memories. How am I supposed to know which ones are real?"

"You are _Desmond_ ," Altair insists.

"Stop _saying_ that!" Desmond bursts out, in Arabic. "I would rather be anyone else!"

He rolls onto his back and puts his hands over his eyes. There's blood all over his hands and they smear across his face. "I can't stand it in here," he says. "In my head. I can't stand not knowing—"

Altair forces himself into Desmond's body, because what else is he supposed to do to help? And he—he—

He doesn't—

There is suddenly too much in his head, a tidal wave of memories and voices and feelings and thoughts. He tries to hold onto himself, who he is, but it doesn't work. He can feel parts of himself ripping away, and there are holes in his memory that hurt because he knows they're important but they're just- just gone. He can't pull himself away from the mess of people in his head. He has absolutely no idea who he is, but he knows that he has never been so terrified in his life. Whoever's life that happens to be.

"What's my name?" he whispers. The words come out choked and only half familiar—he knows this voice. It's his, isn't it? Or—no, it belongs to someone he's close to—no. No, it's his. He takes a deep breath. Looks down at himself. There are lifetimes worth of memories in his head, visitors—no, his ancestors. That's where these memories come from, the animus. He looks down, and he knows the clothes he's wearing. He recognizes the temple he's lying in. He's Desmond, of course he is. He sits up, holding his aching head.

"Ow," he grumbles. The bleeding effect is getting worse the longer he stays in the animus. There had been a minute there when he really hadn't known who he was—Desmond takes a few quick, terrified breaths, trying to calm himself. Ezio and Connor and Haytham are receding back into his mind, but Altair's memories won't fade. They keep banging around in his head, insisting that Desmond pay attention to them. He frowns and tries to shake them off.

"Oh my God— _no_."

Desmond turns and then jumps at the sight of… of himself, half a foot away. The other him looks horrified, and Desmond can't blame him. "Are you visiting me?" he asks. "I didn't know that was possible. Visiting yourself, I mean."

"No. I'm—I'm so sorry. You shouldn't have done that."

"Done what?" Desmond frowns.

"I was bleeding," the other Desmond says. "You borrowed my body, and now _you're_ bleeding but I'm not, and I—thank you for trying, but you didn't have to."

"I don't understand."

"Do you remember your name?"

He nods. "I'm Desmond."

"You're not," the other Desmond says, and he sounds much more certain than Desmond feels. The bottom seems to drop out of his stomach. Is it possible..?

"I'm Desmond," Desmond says. But he's a little less certain than he had been. "I have to be. I'm—" he wants to laugh, or cry, or just go to sleep and never wake up. His head is killing him. "This is my body. I have all these memories. Desmond's."

"Yea," the other Desmond says. "And how many other people are in there? You're _bleeding_ , you're—I can't believe I'm having this conversation. But you can't trust the things that happen in your head, okay? You can't trust your memories, you can't trust your thoughts, you can't trust what you see or hear or think. Alright?"

"But then how do I know who I am?"

They look at each other. The other Desmond and… and not Desmond. So maybe held not Desmond, but if that's true—who is he?

"You're Altair," The other—only—Desmond says.

He tries this on for size. Tries to fit his mind into the shape of Altair's but every time he's almost there, someone else's memories come pushing their way to the front of his head, blowing Altair away. Ezio. Haytham. Connor. He's pretty sure he's not Desmond, at least. But there are still too many choices...

"Never mind," Desmond says. He sounds like he's giving up. "I know what it's like, I'm not going to be able to convince you."

"I can figure it out," he mutters, dropping his head into his hands. They're bloody. "I'm… I have to be someone, don't I?"

He knows who he wants to be. Altair is stiff and Haytham is stern and Connor is sad. It would be easiest if he were Ezio. He can go back to his own life when this visit is over and be happy. Yes there are hard parts but at least some bits of it are fun. Ezio knows how to smile, and when things get to be too much there's always the Rosa in Fiore, an endless parade of women and men to help him forget.

He thinks about this. If he is Ezio, he'll enjoy what he's about to do. If he's not, he won't.

He lunges forward and kisses Desmond. Presses right up against him, hungry and eager to know if he wants this, or if he's someone other than Ezio. For a second, it's absolute bliss. Desmond—surprised, maybe—opens his mouth and kisses him back. And he is _certain_ in that second, that he's Ezio, because this feels perfect and right and good--but then Desmond pushes him away and shakes his head and the feelings are gone. Maybe he's not Ezio.

"Why did you just kiss me?" Desmond demands.

"To find out if I was Ezio," he mumbles. His headache is getting worse.

"You're _not_ ," Desmond says. "You're Altair! I told you—oh _God_. I just kissed Altair bleeding Ezio in my body, what is wrong with my life?"

"I'm not Altair!" he shouts.

"Yes you are!" Desmond shouts back.

 He'd tried that already, it hadn't worked. Maybe he's Connor. But—no. He doesn't have all of Connor's memories yet, he's not done. So he must not be Connor. Haytham, then? He's a templar? That doesn't quite feel right, but maybe that's just because there are so many assassins in his head right now.

He closes his eyes and tries to focus on being Haytham. His chest aches with loneliness in counterpoint to the pounding in his head. His father is dead and his son doesn't want him and—

_Yes he does because Darim loves him more than anything else in the world._

But Darim isn't his son. Connor is. When he closes his eyes and thinks _son_ , his whole being goes cold with the hurt of how he's pushed Connor away. He's failed and he can't ever get Connor back. He—

_He remembers Darim waking him up that morning, a thousand years ago, in someone else's life. Beaming at him and giggling, trying to worm his way under the covers to be with his mother and father in bed. He remembers the feel of the little boy pressed against his chest. Warm and solid and real—_

Altair falls out of Desmond's body, exhausted but himself again. The headache is still there, but other than that he feels himself again. Mostly. There's just a grain of doubt in his mind now, and he's not sure that this uncertainty of who he is will ever fully go away. How would he know if he was imagining all of this?

He goes limp, lying on his back with the cold floor of the temple below him. It's fine. This is just a visit, and Altair can afford to let his guard down. He needs that at the moment.

"Who am I..?"

He turns his head a little and sees Desmond, blank eyed and expressionless again, now that he's back in his own body. Now that he's bleeding again. This time, Altair doesn't try to say anything because he knows what Desmond is going through, he knows that awful uncertainty. He just rolls over and hugs Desmond close. It's not something he'd normally do (maybe there's just a little bit of Ezio left in him still), but Altair rubs at Desmond's back, whispering Desmond's name into his ear over and over again until finally Desmond shudders and relaxes.

"Okay," he says at last. "Okay, I'm—I'm alright now. I remember who I am."

"Tell me," Altair says.

"I'm Desmond," Desmond whispers. Disappointment and defeat mix together in his voice, and Altair wonders if maybe Desmond is still wishing he is someone else. Desmond buries his face into Altair's shoulder and sobs.

"You'll be okay," Altair promises.

"I won't," Desmond says. The words burst out between sobs, quick and sharp and heavy. "Don't—don't _lie._ "

So Altair says nothing more.


	49. Chapter 49

"Um… um, 'scuze me?"

Altair looks down at the little boy that has suddenly appeared by his side. He's so dirty and small that he might be any visitor, but Altair thinks by the boy's accent that he must be Ezio. His skinny arms are wrapped around his chest, and his eyes are stuck on the ground. Altair has never seen Ezio like this before—small, yes, but not shy. He'd obviously outgrown it at some point, but he's not quite there yet.

"What's wrong?" Altair asks, beckoning Ezio closer. He's no older here than Darim is, and Altair catches himself thinking more kindly of Ezio than he might have normally. Not that he dislikes him, of course—but with Ezio there is always something to watch out for. He's tried to kiss Altair so many times by now (typically on the hand, occasionally… elsewhere), that Altair has learned to be on his guard around him.

But now Ezio is so small, and he looks so lost—Altair lets his guard slip. Later, he will regret that.

"I don't know where I am," Ezio says quietly. "I want to go home."

"You can't right now," Altair says carefully. "But you will be safe as long as you're here. I promise. No one can even see you."

"You can see me."

"Just me," Altair amends.

Ezio looks doubtfully at Altair, then around them. "I don't like it here," he complains. "I want to go home."

Altair pats him on the shoulder, and opens his mouth to offer some kind of helpful platitude. Before he can, though, Ezio hugs him. He's trembling slightly, and seems to be trying to bury himself in Altair's chest.

"I'm scared," he says. "I don't want to be here!"

"I want you to be here," Altair says, mostly because he can't think of anything else to say.

"Why?"

"You're a friend." 

"But you're old," Ezio protests, and Altair is startled enough to laugh aloud at this.

"We can still be friends," he says.

Ezio whimpers and pushes himself farther into Altair. He pushes himself— _right_ into Altair, into his body so that suddenly they are sharing it. Maybe it's just because Ezio is so small, or maybe he's done something wrong, but for whatever reason he hasn't pushed Altair off. They're both just there, and Altair can feel the tiny spark of young Ezio's mind rubbing against his, confused and scared and still seeking comfort.

And then—

"Oh no," Altair groans.

That's when Ezio seems to realize that while he's in Altair's body, he can control it. He holds his—Altair's—their hands up in front of their face, just staring at them. From Altair's point of view, it's the strangest thing. He can feel his own arms moving, but he's not the one doing it. He has to fight Ezio for control just to get his arms to drop back down to his side, but by then Ezio has already gotten distracted. He jumps to their feet, tottering slightly (Altair works hard at keeping their balance, but he's fully aware that they're swaying on their shared feet like a drunkard). Then he giggles, hands flying up to their face.

The blush that spreads like wildfire across their face is definitely coming from Altair, though. He hadn't been aware he was capable of making a noise like that.

"I'm big too!" Ezio announces in Altair's voice, and for whatever reason this seems to make all his nervousness go away. Which is great for him, but Altair is suddenly very aware that _Ezio Auditore is four years old and has free reign of his body_. There is no possible way that this will end well. For some reason (possibly just because the universe hates him today), Altair obviously has less control of his own body than Ezio does. So while he's still struggling to stop that damned giggling, Ezio has found the door and gone tearing down the hall outside.

He runs past three novices and an older assassin that will undoubtedly _never_ respect Altair again, and then he comes to the room where Darim and Sef are supposed to be napping. No, Altair thinks. No—he can live with being made a fool of in front of the others in the castle. But his sons adore him, against all logic, they think that Altair can do no wrong. If Ezio goes in there giggling and acting like the child he is, he'll ruin everything.

Ezio pauses in the doorway. His head cocks sideways, considering, and even when Altair tries with every bit of strength he has in him, he can't make Ezio move away. Finally, Ezio goes inside an drops to the ground next to Darim. He sits cross legged on the ground and smiles bashfully for a second, then sticks his thumb in his mouth. Coming from a four year old, it might have seemed a shy, nervous gesture. Altair is not four years old. He feels like a fool, and Darim is staring at him in confusion. Quietly, he reaches over and nudges Sef awake so that they're both staring at their father like he's gone crazy.

Ezio fidgets nervously, and then pulls Altair's thumb out of his mouth with a little popping sound. "Do you want to play with me?" he asks hopefully.

"Isn't it nap time?" Darim asks. Carefully, like he thinks this might be some kind of weird trick.

"Play, play!" Sef demands, jumping to his feet. He tackle hugs Ezio, laughing as they tumble to the ground together. Ezio giggles too, his face lighting up—Sef reaches over and tugs at Darim, urging him to join them.

"But—"

"Play!" Sef insists.

 "Yes!" Ezio cheers, clapping his hands together. "Play with us!"

Darim hesitates a second longer, but then shrugs and grins.

And so they play, chasing one another around the little room, running and laughing and shouting, the way children do. At first, Altair keeps trying to kick Ezio out of his head, or at least get some control back. But all three of them seem so happy that Altair eventually stops trying. He turns his attention to reigning Ezio in a little—he doesn't seem to fully realize that he's bigger than Darim and Sef now, or that he can hurt them if he's not careful. Altair pulls him back every time he seems about to go too far, and luckily nothing bad happens.

They keep running around for ages, but eventually all three of them tire. Ezio in his borrowed, older body drops to the ground first, sprawled out in an undignified pose on the ground, panting heavily, robes askew and hiked up around his legs. Sef falls on him a moment or two later (and Altair winces—he's going to feel that in the morning), and then Darim sits down too, leaning against his father's side.

And then they all just fall asleep. Just like that, like they're too tired out from all their running around to keep going a moment longer. Altair tries to stay awake, but _Ezio_ is tired, and there is so much Ezio in his head by now that fighting him is like fighting a natural disaster, a fire or a flood. They are asleep in moments, and their dreams are strange—an odd mix of Ezio's life and Altair's, some happy world where they play hide and seek with Darim and Sef and Federico and Claudia--

When Altair wakes again, he is alone in his mind, both his sons still sprawled out on top of him. It is not exactly the worst position he's ever woken in after visiting. (The time that Edward had borrowed his body while Altair was asleep, for example, had not ended well. He's still not sure if Malik is ever going to forgive him for that). Ezio is out of his body, finally, crouched down next to his face and looking unusually serious.

"Thank you for taking care of me," he says. "And for letting me borrow you. And letting me play." He leans over and gives Altair a big, sloppy kiss on the cheek (which he follows by blowing a raspberry at Altair, because he's Ezio and of course he does). He giggles, this time in an _I know I wasn't supposed to do that but I did it anyway_ sort of way, and then vanishes. Altair sighs and starts trying to think of a planto get up without waking the boys. He hasn't come up with any ideas when he hears a sudden burst of laughter from the doorway. When he looks up, Maria is there.

Well, it could have been worse. It could have been Malik.

"So," she says, eyes sparkling. "How did you manage to get yourself in this position?"

"I didn't—" he shifts a little, almost dislodging Sef from his chest in the process. He reaches up quickly and catches the boy before he can fall. "I mean—"

"Daddy played with us!" Sef says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Did he now?" Maria asks.

"It was fun!" He hugs Altair. "Can we play again later? Please?"

He hugs back on instinct, thinking. About how absurd Ezio had looked in his body, running around, arms and legs flailing almost uncontrollably. But also about Darim and Sef shrieking in laughter, giggling until they have to stop running just so they can breathe, smiling as bright as the sun and the stars.

"Any time you want," he promises Sef. "Maybe if you ask nicely, your mother will join us."

Sef seems delighted by the suggestion, running over to Maria and clutching at her legs, pleading with her to play until she laughs and gives in. Altair had known she would, of course. These are their sons, and the two of them would give Darim and Sef the world if they could.


	50. Chapter 50

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 50th chapter, finally! :D
> 
> Anyway, this chapter is a response to the Haytham/Aveline Haytham/Shay Haytham/Shay/Aveline shipping war (see Visitors: Gratuitous Wish Fulfillment Edition chapters 60-61 and Visitations chapters 74-75). Because NO.

“I have a question for you,” Connor tells Desmond late one night.

He's clearly been working up to this for quite some time. Desmond watches as Connor sets his jaw, apparently forcing himself not to look away. This is a Connor he hasn't been in the animus yet, his hair patchy and uneven from where part of it has been shaved and then allowed to begin growing back, his body covered with injuries that have a long time left before they will heal. And there is something in his eyes that Desmond doesn't recognize at first.

He thinks it might be regret.

Desmond sits up in his sleeping bag, trying to hide his yawn. It would have been nice if Connor could have worked up to this earlier, but he's not going to ignore him now. “Sure,” he says. “What's wrong?”

“You feel things that the rest of us live through, don't you?” Connor asks. “Because of the animus.”

Desmond nods. “Yea. Is that what you came here to ask about? The bleeding effect?”

“Not… Not exactly,” Connor says. He looks at Desmond, almost pleading. It's like he's begging Desmond to know what's bothering him without having to say it out loud. But Desmond only shakes his head helplessly, and Connor’s face goes still, a careful mask that shows nothing of what he's feeling.

“Connor?” Desmond prompts eventually. His whole body is itching with tiredness, and if Connor doesn't say something soon, Desmond is going to fall asleep on him.

“Why did my father love my mother?” Connor asks, and an electric shock seems to suddenly burn it's way through Desmond's every nerve. He's not tired anymore, he's wide awake and aching at the thought of Ziio. He frowns at Connor, trying to mask the pain Connor's question has caused.

"Why don't you ask him?" Desmond asks, more sharply than he'd meant to.

"Because it's too late to make any difference," Connor says. Desmond has no idea what that's supposed to mean, but Connor sounds so convinced that it's hard to argue. "And he wouldn't tell me the truth even if I asked. But I know you were there when they met. You must have felt as father did."

 _Felt_ , Connor says. Past tense, as if there's any chance of Desmond letting go of his impossible love for a woman he will never even meet. As if he can't still feel that love burning inside him, intense and terrifying, even secondhand. "Yea," he mumbles. "I did."

"So tell me," Connor insists. "Why did he love her? I know he did. I could see—when he talked about her…" he trails off, and the two of them sit in awkward silence for a few moments, until Connor can force himself to go on. "I just want to know why. They barely had a chance to know each other, but he still loved her, even years later. Why?"

"Ziio was—" Desmond closes his eyes and rubs at his pounding head. He can feel Haytham washing over and into and through him along with his feelings for Ziio, and Desmond knows he should change the subject if he wants to avoid an episode of the bleeding effect, but he can't just _stop_ thinking about her now that she's started. Because that's the kind of love Haytham (and by extension Desmond) has for Ziio. The kind of love where no pain or loss or suffering is too great to bear in exchange for even the smallest reminder of her.

"Desmond?" Connor creeps closer, looking somewhat concerned.

"Your mother was the most… _present_ woman I ever met," Desmond says. His voice is choked (of course it is, he's trying not to cry), but he's aware that behind the tears his voice has gone stiff and formal. Like Haytham's voice. "She knew exactly who she was and what she wanted. Next to her, every other woman, every other person in the world looked flat and dull. Being with her was like coming up for air. Like realizing I'd been surrounded by paper dolls masquerading as humans for my whole life. But she was real, she was real and passionate and there was such _fire_ in her, Connor. Nobody ever measured up to her." _  
_

His head is still aching but he opens his eyes and looks at Connor. Now that he's thinking of Ziio, he can't stop seeing her in his face. In the eyes, particularly. They're supposed to be windows to the soul, but with Ziio they had been so much more. They had shown him things he'd never seen before, a passion for life and for those she loves that he'd never suspected people were capable of. Connor's eyes are much the same, normally, bold and bright and lit with _conviction_ , even if they have been hardened by a lifetime of unhappiness.

Not now, though. They've been dimmed by whatever misfortune had brought Connor here to him in the first place, looking hopeless and defeated, needing answers. And suddenly he can't bear to see Ziio's son looking so empty and sad—he reaches forward, ignoring Connor's surprise, and wraps him in a hug. If only he'd done this years ago, when Connor was small. Maybe things between them wouldn't have turned out so badly.

"You do know I… I care for you," he manages to say at last. "Not as a proper father should care, but—" he tilts his head and kisses Connor softly, tenderly, on the forehead. "I did try. For years I wanted a son, and by the time we met, you had already made up your mind against me. I should have tried harder to change your mind, I should have—"

"Desmond," Connor says. "You are not my father."

It hurts him more than it should, but—no.

Desmond. _Desmond_ , not Haytham. That's who he is, of course, of course—he shudders, and doesn't move. Connor carefully moves his arms up and sort of hugs Desmond back. He's not very good at it, but it's still surprisingly comforting. Desmond shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I forget, sometimes."

Connor shakes his head. "I shouldn't have asked you to do that."

"Well…" he almost laughs. "No. Maybe not. But did it help, at least?"

"I think so," Connor says carefully. They pull away from each other. "I came to find out if he really cared for mother, and you've proved to me that he did." He rubs awkwardly at the place on his forehead where Desmond had accidentally kissed him. "Did he really care for me?"

Desmond nods. It's hard to be certain, since his time as Haytham in the animus had ended well before he learned Connor existed. But he knows that Haytham had hoped for a son, and that he'd cared for Ziio. And Desmond has seen Haytham with Connor, seen the way he looks at him. Maybe Connor doesn't recognize it, but Desmond has _been_ Haytham. He can't help seeing the caring there. "Your father cares for you," he says.

"I wish I'd known earlier," Connor says. "It's too late now."

"You said that before," Desmond says. "Why is it too late?"

Connor looks away. "I killed him."

"Oh." Silence. "Well, there's... there's always visiting." It feels strange to be reminding his hallucination about his other hallucination, but Desmond has more or less given up on having a life that makes sense.

"It's not the same," Connor mutters. "I'll still know what I did."

Desmond thinks about being Haytham, and feeling lonely. He thinks about being Connor, and feeling alone. "You should try," he says. "You really should."

"I..." Connor nods, hesitantly. "Maybe I will."


	51. Chapter 51

The kitten is supposed to be a present for Rory's birthday, but Desmond finds her first. He is maybe nine or ten years old when he appears at Shay's elbow, and he's instantly enamored with the tiny bundle of fur Shay is holding in one hand. He and Aveline had gone into town together to get the kitten from a friend of theirs, leaving Philippe in charge of the younger children, and they are hurrying home when Desmond arrives. Shay catches Aveline's arm with the hand not holding the kitten and pulls her to a stop—they can spare a few moments for Desmond.

"Do you want to see her?" Shay offers, holding the cat out toward Desmond. His eyes shine at the sight, but he shakes his head and shifts into a more formal position—back straight, legs slightly apart, hands clasped behind his back. He looks like a little soldier.

"No, sir," he says.

"Sir?" Aveline laughs. Shay cracks a smile too, but Desmond doesn't.

"Dad says I'm supposed to be polite," he explains. "Be polite, be quiet, do as you're told, don't cry, don't ask for things, don't be annoying." He lists these off by rote, in a tone that makes it clear he's heard this a million times before.

Shay feels the smile fading off his face. This can't be Desmond. He's too… still. Maybe that's it. He's just standing there waiting to be told what to do, and it unnerves Shay. He pulls the kitten back toward his chest, and she mews softly. Desmond follows the motion, his eyes still fixed on the kitten, but he doesn't say anything.

"Do as you're told," Aveline echoes. "Desmond, is that what your father teaches you?"

He hesitates, looking away from the kitten to frown at her. "Yea," he says. "He's training me to be… um. Well it's sort of a secret."

"An assassin?" Aveline prompts, and Desmond nods.

"You know about the assassins?" he asks.

"I _am_ an assassin," she tells him, and Desmond sort of shuffles back toward Shay. He doesn't seem to be aware that he's doing it. 

"Oh," he says.

"Why does your father teach you to do as you're told?" Aveline asks.

"Because it's important to be obedient when you're an assassin," Desmond replies promptly. "If you're on a mission, and someone tells you to do something, you can't go running off and doing your own thing. People might get hurt."

"But what if what they tell you to do is something bad?" Shay asks gently. "What if you know something they don't know?"

"Always listen," Desmond says firmly. "Or you get in trouble. You get sent to your room and you're not allowed to leave. Or you get shouted at. I used to not be so good at listening, but now I know better and I don't get into trouble anymore." He looks over his shoulder at Shay, and his voice is flat and dull. "Dad says I'll be a decent assassin if I keep listening to everything he tells me." He says this without any excitement whatsoever.

"But are you happy?" Aveline asks.

"Of course not. What does that have to do with—"

Shay can't take it anymore. He wants to talk to Desmond, not this beaten down shell his father has taught him to be. Swiftly, before Desmond can notice what's happening, Shay reaches over his shoulder and presses Rory's kitten into Desmond's hand.

Desmond freezes completely and _almost_ drops her out of sheer surprise. He abandons what he's saying midsentence and stares at the kitten through wide eyes.

"Do you like her?" Shay asks.

There's a long pause. "No," Desmond says, unconvincingly. He tries to hand her back to Shay, but Shay won't take her. Desmond frowns. "Dad says pets are dirty and annoying."

"Desmond," Aveline says softly. "Your dad is wrong."

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. The kitten rubs her tiny head against his thumb, and Shay can tell that Desmond is fighting hard to keep a smile off his face. "Maybe… maybe _most_ pets are annoying, but this one's okay?" he looks up at Shay and Aveline, almost like he's hoping for permission. His hands are cupped together now, cradling the kitten as carefully as possible.

"I think animals are generally quite nice," Aveline says.

"What's his name?" Desmond asks.

"She doesn't have one," Shay says. "Do you want to name her?"

"I don't know how to name a cat," Desmond protests. "Dad says, if you can't do something well, you shouldn't do it at all."

Shay is getting very tired of hearing William Miles every time Desmond opens his mouth. "Well, you can't give a cat a bad name," he says.

"But I don't know—"

"Just pick a name you like," Aveline says.

"Is that good enough?" Desmond asks.

"That's what we did for our children," Shay says cheerfully. "And none of them have complained yet."

"Ellen," Desmond says after a long pause. Then he shakes his head. "No! Um… Ella… Ellie."

"Ellie?" Aveline asks.

"No." He looks sad. "It's not exactly right. Um…" he hesitates a long time, thinking. Shay isn't sure that any of these sound like good cat names. More like the kind of names a person would give a daughter than an animal, but then apparently, Desmond hasn't been allowed to be around pets. It's not exactly his fault. After a while Desmond brightens. "Elena," he says. "It sounds like a princess, doesn't it? It's pretty?"

"It's… very nice," Aveline agrees.

Desmond very nearly manages to smile at the kitten. "Is she your cat?" he asks.

"We're giving her to our son," Shay says, and Desmond reluctantly hands the kitten back. He pets her once or twice more, then seems to force his hands to go still, twisting the fingers together and pulling them inward toward himself.

"Will you make sure he doesn't change her name?" Desmond asks anxiously. "I never named a cat before."

"On one condition," Aveline says. "You have to promise to _think_ about what your dad tells you to do, alright? If it doesn't seem right, you don't have to listen."

"I'll get in trouble!"

"Some things are worth a little bit of trouble," Shay says.

Desmond nods, and in fact he already looks like he's deep in thought when he vanishes back to his own time. Shay takes Aveline's hand (in the one that's not holding the kitten) and squeezes gently. "I keep thinking," he says quietly. "That nothing else can possibly go wrong in his life. And then it does. I don't understand how he can always get up and keep going."

"He's strong," Aveline says simply. "Come on. Let's get back to Rory before we miss his _entire_ birthday."

Rory is delighted with the cat, although he laughs himself silly when he learns that her name is Elena. "That's not a cat name," he says. "That's a _person_ name."

"Well it's this cat's name," Aveline says. "A friend of ours named her."

"Another _invisible_ friend?" Philippe asks from the other side of the room, disapprovingly.

Shay sighs and shakes his head. "Just enjoy the cat, Rory," he says, clapping the boy on the shoulder.

"I will," Rory promises, hugging the tiny feline close—far closer than Desmond had dared to. He runs his fingers down the kitten's fur, beaming as she meows and bats at them with her tiny paws. "Thank you."


	52. Chapter 52

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of Evie meets everyone. Because it's been about two months since Syndicate came out and I haven't written anything about the Frye twins yet, this is unacceptable.

Jacob is irritatingly confident that he'll succeed in killing his target, and the worst of it is that he probably will. Because here is Evie, pouring over her plans on the train, making sure she knows every bit of information she's gathered on David Brewster by heart. She's prepared for this, spent sleepless nights making sure that the mission will go off without a hitch. And while she'd been busy doing that, Jacob had been out at the pub with friends. Or showing off, which is even worse. They are assassins, not—not _sideshow_ performers. It's not fair that he'll do well, but he will. Of course he will. He lives a charmed life, drifting through his days with a kind of cocky good cheer and the belief that his luck will never fail. Evie cannot help feeling bitter.

The train rumbles to a stop, and Evie stands, dropping a match to the plan of Brewster's laboratory she has been pouring over so that it burns and curls up into ashes. It's no good thinking of Jacob now. She has her own mission to see to, and a target of her own.

Evie does a relatively good job of keeping her brother from her mind as she works her way toward Brewster. He's never completely out of her thoughts, of course, because for all that he is an annoyance and a liability, he is still her little brother. Whenever she says this to Jacob, he pulls a face and says that being born four minutes earlier doesn't make her _older_ —Evie always answers that it has nothing to do with when they were born, and everything to do with him acting like a five-year-old. So he's still her little brother, and she worries about him.

She is used to this worry. It is always in the back of her mind, no matter what else is going on, and it does not distract Evie from her mission today. Not too much, anyway. She makes her way down to the hidden laboratory, and waits for a while to get the lay of the land. She slips past a squadron of uninterested brutes, silencing a few whose eyes are sharper than their peers. And then the assassination—it goes off without a hitch—and…

And oh _no_.

The apple of Eden that Brewster had been so stupidly pumping electricity into simply explodes. Evie is far too close to it, she is standing well within the blast radius and the explosion is too sudden to run from. She throws a hand up across her face, as if that will do anything to help, and braces herself for pain.

The pain does not arrive. Instead, time seems to freeze, shards of the apple glimmering unnaturally in the air around her. Evie hesitates, then lowers her arms and looks around. So this is the power of a piece of Eden…

A voice speaks, apparently from within her own mind, but resonating with a kind of unknowable power that is inhuman and strange.

 _"You are not one of them,"_ it says. _"But I think… yes. I think it would do you some good to see."_

"See what?" Evie asks. The shards of apple in the air are growing suddenly dull, and the power of the voice in her head is fading. "See _who_?"

And then time restarts, and Evie is blown backward from the force of the apple's explosion. It does not hurt as much as she had been expecting, but the force has set the rest of the laboratory shaking. This, _this_ is why secret experiments into unknown forces shouldn't take place in basements. It would have been so much easier to escape if the laboratory had been underground.

She is panting and scratched up by the time she finally reaches sunlight and safety. Evie stops a fair distance away, no longer worried about being seen (Brewster's remaining forces are rushing pointlessly toward the explosion, not looking away from it at her), and sucks in deep breaths of real air.

Evie is bent over, hands on her knees, unattractively gulping oxygen, when she hears quiet footsteps and then a voice.

"You're not a visitor."

"Wh—" she straightens up, readying her blades. "What?"

A man, only a few years Evie's senior but with eyes that look somehow much older, is standing there, studying her. He looks only half visible, flickering like something insubstantial. His clothes look like the traditional robes of the middle eastern assassins, plain white robes with a red sash. Evie feels oddly overdressed compared to him. "Who are you?" the man asks.

"Who are _you_?" she demands, because he's the one that's not supposed to be here.

"Altair Ibn-La'Ahad."

"Oh— _oh!"_ her startled expression seems to amuse him, which in any other circumstance from any other man would have seemed an insult. But this is _the_ Altair, the best and greatest of the brotherhood, and she can't believe she's standing merely feet away from him. Maybe she's simply gone insane. Or maybe that explosion _had_ killed her, and she just hasn't noticed yet. Maybe that explains the dead man in front of her.

Or maybe… she thinks of the voice in her head. Maybe this is what she'd been meant to see. _You are not one of them_ , the voice had said. _You're not a visitor_ , Altair has told her. "Tell me what's going on," she begs, and in her eagerness she grabs hold of his hand. He looks down at it. So does she. Then she awkwardly pulls away. "Sorry," she says. "But what just happened?"

"How should I know?" he asks, and Evie flinches just a bit at his irritated tone. This man is a legend, one of her idols, and she has already managed to annoy him this much? "This is your life."

"But you must know something," she insists. "What is a visitor? Why am I not one?"

"It's… there are eight of us," Altair says reluctantly, after quite a long pause. "We call ourselves visitors because we live in different times and places, and sometimes we appear in one another's lives. But I have no idea why I'm here. You're not a visitor."

He's said this twice now. Evie isn't sure if she should feel insulted or not—it rather feels like she's failing some sort of test, and she has never enjoyed failure. "I can't help that," she says.

"There must be some reason I'm here," Altair tells her. His eyes stray toward the distant explosion, and there is that frown again. "What's happened?"

She reluctantly tells him everything, flushing red at the admission of how thoroughly she's managed to ruin everything. The target is dead, yes, but she has not exactly passed unnoticed. "I think… after it was over," she says at the end. "The apple, or the thing inside it, whatever it was, it told me it would do me good to see. Do you think he meant you?"

"I suppose," Altair says. "I can't see anything else unusual around here."

"But why?" she asks, turning to look at the remnants of the laboratory as well. "I don't understand what I'm supposed to be getting out of this."

He makes a little contented noise. "I know that this is not quite visiting," he says. "But it does seem similar. And I have found that the purpose of a visit is not always immediately apparent. Tell me of the brotherhood in this time."

She feels a little curl of shame in her gut. "We are weak," Evie admits. "London is controlled completely by Templars, and frim London they can reach out across the entire Britishe Empire."

"So why are you not in London?" Altair asks.

"It's not that simple...."

When nothing but silence answers her, Evie turns to the place where Altair had been. He's gone, as suddenly as he had appeared. _Well_. That all seemed… rather disappointingly uneventful. She'd hoped for some kind of wisdom, at least, but Altair had seemed like a very ordinary man. Not a legend.

She heads back toward the train station, thinking of Jacob again now that the immediate danger has passed. When they get back together again, and he turns out to be quite alright (despite somehow managing to _derail and crash an entire train_ ), Evie admits to destroying the laboratory, but says nothing about Altair.

Part of her is sort of wondering if she might get to meet these other visitors, in time. But another part of her is thinking of London, and of... of some making the old mentor proud. After all, why _aren't_ they in London?

When Jacob suggests hopping a train to the city not half an hour later, Evie only pretends to be reluctant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear-- Evie is not being retroactively added as a ninth visitor, she's just getting to meet them.


	53. Chapter 53

Evie has to admit that she kind of likes the train. It had been irresponsible and stupid for to take it, but… it's not entirely bad, having a mobile headquarters like this. She likes being mobile, it makes her feel safe. Foolish, maybe, but it has never fallen asleep so easily as she does here. The gentle back and forth motion of the train rocks her to sleep, and she feels less worried knowing that she won't wake up in the same place that she went to sleep in the night before. She feels like nothing will ever catch up to them.

The only down side to the train is that it's really hard to get away from Jacob. At home, Evie could have shut herself in her room and locked Jacob out (he knows how to pick locks, but after two decades together he is gradually learning when it is wiser _not_ to annoy Evie). On the train, there is nowhere Evie can go to get away from her brother, and there are times when she would dearly wish to.

Now, for instance. Evie is hard at work, poring over some research, and Jacob insists on lounging around with her, talking loudly about what he's been doing to build up the Rooks. Evie couldn't have cared less what his little group of street thugs is up to, although at the moment she wishes he'd just run off and play with them instead of bothering her.

"Come on, Evie," Jacob huffs, leaning over the little table Evie is working at and scattering papers everywhere. "You haven't even left the train all day, you must be bored stiff."

"I'm doing research."

"Come do something with me instead," he urges. "We've only been here a few weeks, there's _plenty_ of London left to see. We could go find something fun to do."

"Some trouble to get ourselves into, you mean," Evie says disapprovingly.

"Well—" he flashes her a cocky grin. "Yes."

"No," Evie says. "I told you, I'm busy."

"Yea, right." He makes a face. "Doing _research_."

"It's not a dirty word, Jacob. You could stand to do a bit more planning yourself."

"But what's so important that you have to do this research right now?" Jacob whines. "What are you looking at, anyway?"

Evie sighs and pushes her papers toward him, even though she knows he won't care. "It's a transcription of Altair's codex," she says.

"The what?"

She gives him a suspicious look, and speaks more testily than she might have normally. The truth is, ever since her… vision, or whatever it had been, she's been feeling a little defensive about the whole thing. Evie _knows_ it had all been real, but she can't explain quite how she knows. She certainly can't explain it in a way that would satisfy Jacob. Evie hasn't even been able to convince him that the Pieces of Eden are important, he'll never believe they could cause something like this.

"Are you confused by what a codex is, or who Altair is?" she asks.

"I know Altair," Jacob says dismissively. "He was like the first assassin or something, wasn't he?"

"You're terrible," Evie grumbles.

"What, wasn't he?"

 _"No,"_ Evie says firmly.

"But he's really ancient at least, right?"

Evie sighs and shakes her head. "He lived several centuries ago," she admits. "During the time of the crusades. You have heard of them, I imagine?"

"Of course," Jacob says, and he has the gall to look insulted by the accusation.

"He wasn't the first assassin," Evie goes on. "But he changed everything, really. He laid the foundation for everything the brotherhood has become, really, and he was probably the first assassin to make contact with a Piece of Eden."

"Oh." Jacob rolls his eyes. " _Those_. So what's this codex thing?"

"His writings," Evie says. "They were compiled a few hundred years after his death by Ezio Auditore da Firenze—"

"Alright," Jacob laughs. "You're making that name up, right? There's no way he was a real person."

"He was!" Evie protests, voice getting just a fraction higher. Jacob has always had the ability to make her feel a bit of a child. "Why would I make that up?"

"Who saddles their kid with a name like that?" Jacob asks. He's still grinning at her, the prat. "He can't have been a very good assassin, can he? Probably a bit of an arsehole—"

"Jacob!" Honestly, there are days when Evie almost can't believe they're related. "He was one of the greatest assassins there has ever been. He rebuilt the Italian brotherhood from the ground up, he was active for decades and took out a lot of the time's most dangerous templars. He—"

"He was also extraordinarily handsome and fairly charming, even if he does say so himself."

Evie very nearly falls from her chair at the stranger's voice, and she whips around to see who had spoken. He's flickering, unreal in the same way Altair had been when he appeared to her not long ago. Evie stares at him, wide eyed, and the man flashes her a cheerful smile that wouldn't have looked out of place on Jacob's face. Evie knows with an absolute certainty that this must be one of the _visitors_ Altair had spoken of, and that he must be Ezio Auditore himself.

"What's the matter?" Jacob asks, just a hint of concern in his voice. "You look like you've seen a ghost, Evie."

Maybe she has. There is a dead man in front of her.

"Go away, Jacob," she snaps at him.

"What…?"

"Go play with your friends or something."

Jacob sort of shuffles away from him, his normally cocky manner evaporating in the face of her terse impatience. "They're not just… it's—" he scowls at her. "Fine. I hope you have fun with your research and your boring night in by yourself."

He's gone through the car door before Evie can say anything, not that there's anything she particularly wants to say. For a moment she hears his feet running across the roof, and then he jumps to the next one and the sound fades and disappears.

Evie turns back to Ezio, shaking just slightly. "I'm sorry," she says as respectfully as she can manage. "That you had to see that."

"So am I." Ezio slides into the seat Jacob had been sitting in a few minutes ago, and he looks puzzled.

"It's just that my brother is so…" Evie searches for the words to explain Jacob, and gives him up as inexplicable. She shrugs instead.

"That was your brother?"

"My twin," Evie admits.

"Oh." A little worry line creases itself into Ezio's forehead. "Do you often fight like that?"

"All the time," Evie says. "He doesn't listen, he doesn't care about the Brotherhood. He still thinks this is all an adventure—he runs around derailing trains and forming stupid gangs, and I'm always left to pick up the pieces."

"Still." Ezio heaves a sigh. "Evie—you are Evie, aren't you? Altair told the rest of us about you."

Evie nods, and she can't stop the little thrill of excitement at the thought that _Ezio Auditore knows her name._ It's amazing, and she shivers a little. Then she thinks about Altair, the Altair, talking about her, and smiles. Maybe she hadn't made such a bad impression on him after all.

"Evie," Ezio says firmly. "Do you mind if I give you some advice?"

"Of course not," she says. "I would be glad to hear anything you want to tell me."

There's a moment of silence, and then Ezio says, "The assassins are a brotherhood."

Well, that's not exactly what she'd been expecting to hear. "Sorry?"

"I think about that sometimes," Ezio says. "Especially at this time of the year. I don't know exactly when it is for you, but in my time it's twenty years since my family was killed by templars. My father. And my two brothers."

"I'm sorry," Evie says, startled. "I've never heard that."

"You're really lucky to have your brother with you," Ezio says seriously. "A brother and a Brother. You should at least try to understand him."

"Why?" Evie asks, before she can stop herself. "He never tries to understand me."

Ezio quite surprises her at this point by getting up and hugging Evie. He just wraps his arms around her, like it's the most natural thing in the world. Evie isn't quite sure why he's decided this is a good idea, but she can't deny that he has a certain talent for hugs. She finds herself hugging him back before she's quite processed that this isn't a good idea. Then her brain starts working again, and she jerks backward. "Sorry," she says. "But what was that for?"

Ezio nods knowingly, retreating back into his seat. "Just testing something," he says.

"What?"

"You're not really a hugger, are you?" Ezio asks, and against all reason he sounds absolutely serious. Now it is Evie's turn to look at him with worry. Quite possibly, the centuries old assassin mentor is insane.

"…no," she says after a moment.

"You should try hugging more," Ezio says. "Maybe start with your brother. It might help you to get along if you try caring about each other instead of arguing."

"I do care for him," she insists. Well… in theory, at least.

"Try hugs," Ezio says. By now, the worry that had lined his face has been replaced by something like laughter. "Trust me, I know what I'm talking about. Altair told you about visiting, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"Well not all of us got along at the beginning, but we're getting better. Hugs helped a lot. And—well, we have two templars, three Kenways… hugs and caring might sound a little strange, I suppose, but they made the eight of us a family. If you just try, with your brother…" he must be watching Evie's skeptical expression. "Come on."

"What?"

Ezio is laughing as he grabs Evie by the hand and pulls her to her feet. "No time like the present!"

"No time like—for _what_?"

"We're going to find your brother."

"Ezio!"

But he doesn't listen, just bounds out of the car and onto the next one, still pulling Evie along behind him. At the last train, they tumble together to the ground, stumbling over their own feet, and then Ezio lets go of Evie's hand to run faster. She puts her head down and adds on a burst of speed without a word, determined to keep up with him.

Ezio moves through the city with a confidence that Evie cannot match, dashing over obstacles and up buildings without so much as a second thought. "Where will your brother be?" he asks, as they draw closer to the busier part of the city. "Do you know?"

"There's a—a pub," Evie says. She's panting, although Ezio still seems to be breathing easily. "Where he meets—his gang meets there most nights."

"Lead the way," Ezio says, and Evie nods biskly before changing direction completely. They keep running, and Evie is annoyed to see Ezio holding himself back to match her pace. They reach a wide gap and she uses her rope launcher to propel herself across—but it only makes Ezio laugh with obvious delight.

She waits on the roof of the building across the street until Ezio manages to make his way across, and then he grabs her forearm and studies the modifications that have been made to her hidden blade with bright eyed intensity. "This is amazing," he says. "I wonder if Leonardo could make something like this...?"

"Leonardo?"

"A friend of mine," Ezio says, releasing Evie's arm. "He's good with this sort of thing." There's a barely concealed pride in his voice as he goes on. "You might have heard of him—Leonardo da Vinci. One of my visitors, Desmond, says he's still famous in the twenty first century. You might have heard of him in this one."

 "Of course I have," Evie says. "I didn't know you worked with—wow."

 "Who made yours?"

She shrugs. "A friend of my brother and I," she says. "Alexander Graham Bell." The name feels almost disappointing, compared to Leonardo da Vinci—Evie feels a second or two of jealousy at the thought that she'll never meet anyone famous like that.

"And speaking of your brother…" Ezio says meaningfully.

Evie takes a deep breath and points down at the building they're standing on. "This is it," she says. "He'll most likely be in here." Just to check, she glances down through the roof. Jacob shines a warm golden color in her eagle vision. It reminds Evie of when their father had set them to elaborate games of hide and seek when they were children, to hone their second sight—she'd loved running around with Jacob then, and finding him had been enough to make her happy.

"Do you really think…?" She looks up at Ezio, only to find that he has vanished, quite abruptly. "Of course," she says, just barely hiding a grin. She makes her way rather slowly down to street level, and then pushes her way through the crowded pub on the ground floor until she reaches Jacob.

"Evie!" he sounds startled, and smells like he's been drinking. He frowns petulantly at her. "Come to yell at me again?"

Evie shakes her head.

"Lecture, then?"

"No—"

"Quote father at me?"

" _No_ , Jacob."

"Then I can't possibly think of any reason you'd come all the way out here to see me and my _'street thugs,'_ " Jacob complains. "What—"

She hugs him. Without warning, wrapping her arms around him as if they were children again. "I'm sorry," she says, although Ezio had not suggested apologizing as well as hugging. It just seems to fit. "I shouldn't have been so terse."

Jacob hugs her back. He doesn't say anything, doesn't exactly forgive her, but when he turns to the barkeep and shouts for another drink, his arms are still wrapped around Evie's shoulders, and he doesn't exactly let go for the rest of the night.


	54. Chapter 54

The Kenway mansion is an intimidating presence, and Evie finds herself pacing back and forth across the street, waiting impatiently for Henry to arrive. The exact location has been lost to the assassins for years, and finding it again is… kind of a big deal. In any other world, Evie would have been positively jumping at the chance to get inside. There might be secrets of the brotherhood from years ago hidden inside, there will almost certainly be hints about the Piece of Eden that Lucy Thorn is looking for.

But…

Evie keeps thinking about something Ezio had said during his… his visit, back on the train. He'd been trying to explain why hugs were important— _"Well, we have two templars, three Kenways…"_

Three Kenways. What if one of them is Edward Kenway, _the_ Edward Kenway, the one whose house Evie is about to break into. What if he shows up now? She's sort of starting to adjust to these strangers showing up in her life when she doesn't expect it, but the house is full of templars and blighters, and Evie doesn't want to have to explain that. If she only gets to meet each of these people once—and so far, there has been no sign of them repeating—she doesn't want to waste these visits during missions, when she's distracted and potentially in danger.

"Miss Frye?"

This is a voice she recognizes, not a stranger's, and Evie relaxes a little as she turns to greet Henry. She knows it's dangerous to relax right now, because the last thing she needs to do before walking into a house full of templars is to let her guard down, but… somehow, Henry has found a way to effortlessly worm his way past her defenses and make her feel safe and relaxed. Nobody else has ever been able to do that before, not even Jacob, and Evie isn't entirely sure what to make of it now.

"Mr. Green," she says. A smile tries very hard to snake its way across her face, but Evie manages to stamp it down— _never allow your emotions to compromise the mission_. She hasn't forgotten the lessons their father taught them as quickly as Jacob has.

"Are you ready?" Henry asks. He looks dubiously up at the mansion, and Evie allows herself a pang of sympathy for him. She knows he is not well suited for field work, and he must be dreading this.

"I am," she says. "Are you?"

Henry only nods, and changes the subject as they climb up to rooftop level, making their way slowly along the street. "It's sad to see this place filled with templars now," he says. "When it used to be the home of an assassin."

"Not exclusively," Evie points out. "The son was a templar, wasn't he?"

"A grandmaster, if the records are correct," Henry agrees. "Can you imagine what the family dinners must have been like?"

Evie laughs but doesn't otherwise answer—they're getting close to the outermost guards, and she doesn't want to be overheard and caught. She makes a gesture of silence, and Henry responds by nodding and slipping away. Of course—it will be far more efficient for Evie, as the stealthier of the two, to go in alone first. Henry can rejoin her when there are less of Starrick's men around.

She doesn't realize that she is not actually alone until a quiet voice says—"It wasn't quite like that, you know."

The speaker times his words to arrive just as Evie is about to slip in through an open window. She slips and almost falls, and only a firm hand catching her forearm stops her from an embarrassing tumble onto the templars and blighters waiting below. Evie scrambles to close her free hand around the window ledge, and between her and the stranger she manages to haul herself awkwardly through.

The man whose voice had distracted her before releases her immediately and steps back, brushing a speck of dirt from his cloak. Evie watches his hand not so casually brush against the templar symbol there, and for a moment she is frozen in blank incomprehension.

"It wasn't quite like that," the man says again. "Those family dinners you and your friend seemed to find so amusing were never a trial. I knew nothing of the assassins or the templars until long after father had died." He pauses. "And I think, even if he had lived to see me choose sides, he would not have hated me for it. He has certainly never shown disapproval on his visits."

"You—" He must be one of the visitors, the flickering unreality of his body makes that very obvious. "You're one of the Kenways?"

"Haytham," he says, in a clipped, matter of fact tone. "Yes."

Well this is far worse than the visit from Edward she'd been half expecting earlier. At least Edward Kenway had been an assassin, but Evie can only assume that his templar son will do whatever she can to sabotage her mission here. She stands there, awkward and uncomfortable, as Haytham's gaze sweeps around the room the two of them are standing in.

"This was once mine," he says, as the silence stretches on.

"What?"

"The room," Haytham says, with exaggerated slowness, as though speaking to an idiot. "I slept here as a child."

"Oh." Evie looks around, trying to imagine the room as it must have looked then. But she knows it has been more than a century since this house was last occupied by any Kenways, and there is little left of what it had once been. Most of the furniture seems to have been recently manufactured, perhaps replacing the aging fixtures of what had been there when the Kenways lived. She glances back at Haytham's face, and can almost swear she sees something like sadness there. He crosses the room and kneels down (for a moment, he puts his back to Evie, and she considers drawing her hidden blade on him—but what would be the point of killing a man that is long dead?). There is a brief creaking noise, and then one of the wooden planks pops out of the floor. Evie inches forward, and sees a small collection of malformed rocks, a metal toy soldier, and a single gold coin—a child's treasures, hidden well enough that even decades of occupation by strangers has not been able to unearth them.

Haytham pulls out the soldier and sets it on the wardrobe. He stares for a moment, adjusts it slightly, then nods in satisfaction. "Well?" he says, turning back to Evie. "I'm sure you've business to attend to here. Better get on with it already."

"You're not going to stop me?" Evie asks suspiciously.

"No." He sounds utterly uninterested. "I've been assured by my visitors that our interactions with you are to be brief and temporary. Whatever you do now is too isolated in time to have any impact either on me or anyone I care about." His tone changes, to become just a bit more hostile. "Unless you're planning to burn this place to the ground, or something of the like, I have no quarrel with you. Despite everything, I _am_ rather fond of the place."

He nudges the floorboard back into place, still watching Evie.

"I came here looking for something," she says, although part of her mind is _screaming_ at her not to go babbling her plans to a templar, even a dead one. "It's rumored that Edward Kenway left some sort of information behind."

"You're looking for knowledge?" Haytham sounds genuinely amused. "Perhaps wisdom? From _my_ father? I do hope you enjoy impossible causes, Miss Frye."

She feels her face color, and shakes her head. "You sound like you don't have a very high opinion of him."

"I think the world of my father," Haytham says. "But… well. See for yourself how much wisdom you gain from him today."

There's something in his face that makes Evie hesitate. For a long moment, the two of them stand there looking at one another, and then Evie says, "Fathers are often difficult." She's thinking of Jacob, and of the way the two of them so often argue over their own father's words. He has always been a wedge between them, even now that he is dead.

"Yes," Haytham agrees.

She nods, and walks through the door. She has only begun to work her way through the house, searching out anything that could indicate there is more to the house than meets the eye, when Haytham calls her name.

She turns back to him, raising her eyebrows but not saying anything (there is a pair of blighters standing feet away from her). Haytham has clasped his hands behind his back, and does not look at either her or the templars. "I find myself…" He hesitates. "Unhappy with so many men traipsing through one of the few places I still have fond memories of. I would take it as a personal favor if you were to eliminate as many of them as possible."

There is no reason in the world that Evie should be doing _personal favors_ for a templar. But for some reason, she catches herself feeling more sympathetic toward him than she had to either of the other two visitors she has had. True, Altair and Ezio were great master assassins, and Haytham is a templar grandmaster. But he had exposed himself in a surprising way, letting down his guard and dusplaying a private part of his childhood to her. And she knows how complicated a father can be-- the understanding hangs like a strange bond in the air between between them.

There is only a fraction of the original number of guards remaining (the rest lie dead, carefully hidden just out of sight) by the time Evie is able to signal to Henry to join her inside, in the room where she is fairly sure Edward Kenway's secrets will be found. They struggle for a while, searching for it, and when they finally figure out the code, and play the appropriate (and _loud_ ) notes on the piano to open the door to the secret basement vault, Haytham tilts back his head and actually laughs aloud. " _That_ is my father," he says fondly. Evie curses and drags Henry down the stairs, very aware of the sound of footsteps running toward them. Attracted by the sound of the piano playing, no doubt. "Clever at times, but about as subtle as cannon fire."

They escape the mansion by the skin of their teeth, with little information to show for it.

Evie still feels that she has gained something, however. Until now, each visit has been an awe inspiring experience, something that leaves her feeling small and unworthy. But when Haytham nods at her and offers a gruff "Thank you" before vanishing, Evie feels unexpectedly content. She feels back on even footing now, like the next time she meets one of these larger than life visitors, she will be able to have a real conversation with them. If Haytham is only human, it follows that the others must be as well.

A few weeks later, she returns to the Kenway mansion alone, slipping past the vastly reduced number of guards. Henry's information suggests that the templars have tried to increase their forces here, but that they cannot convince any but the bravest or stupidest to stand guard in the mansion. Apparently, there are rumors floating around the templars and the blighters that the place is cursed. Possibly killing so many of them has scared the rest away. Evie is more pleased than she should be.

But in the end, she finds any information that might have been there already gone, no doubt rifled through by Lucy Thorn and her associates. Evie _does_ find something else, though—she is passing through Haytham's old room upstairs on her way out when she spies the toy soldier, standing a silent, forgotten watch over the room that had once been the center of a little boy's world.

Evie takes it on a whim and carries it back to the train with her, where it comes to rest on her bedside table.

"What is that?" Jacob asks, when he spies it later that afternoon. "Some antique?"

"It was a friend's," Evie says, after a pause.

"You have friends?" Jacob laughs, and the conversation immediately devolves into childish bickering as Evie hurls her pillow at his head.


	55. Chapter 55

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief break before part 4 of Evie meets everyone. Based on Visitations 44 (Desmond gets his lion back) and Visitations 76 (Desmond steals Connor's blanket).

Bill drives, because Shaun is not good at coping with sudden losses like this, and Rebecca drives a bit like a demon. So it's Bill behind the wheel, Shaun next to him, navigating, and Rebecca alone in the back.

Alone.

There seems to be so much extra space there. Desmond had never taken up that much space when he was alive, but now that he's dead—left behind in the temple where he'd given his life for the fate of the world—the van seems empty. Rebecca sighs and angrily wipes at her face. She's not crying, she's _not_. She reminds herself that Desmond had been slowly but surely losing his mind, talking to people that aren't there when he thought no one was watching, sleeping with his arms wrapped around himself as if in a hug, blacking out, speaking in other languages…

Somehow, that only makes it worse. He'd been nice when he first came to the safe house back in Italy. Quiet and almost sweet, terrified out of his mind but trying to hide it. Watching him fall to pieces over the past few months had been painful.

"Rebecca," Bill snaps from the front of the van. "Are you listening?"

Not really. "Yes."

He snorts disbelievingly and repeats himself. "I need you to clean up all that crap Desmond left back there. We'll have to get rid of it at the next stop."

"What crap?"

"That garbage he dug out of the grave with the key," Bill says dismissively. "It's too distinctive, if anyone is tracking us. We don't want to raise suspicion."

"But…" she trails off. _They were important to Desmond_ doesn't seem like an argument that will carry much weight.

She finds a large bag discarded on the floor, and starts shoving things into it. The hidden blades Connor had once cut from his father's corpse. The journals Desmond had pored over on the way back to the temple, curled up in a corner of the van, small and silent and still. The—

"Where's the lion?" she asks.

"What lion?" Bill snaps.

"You know. The one he found in the grave."

"I think…" Shaun speaks reluctantly. "I saw him put it in his bag before—everything happened."

Bill snorts derisively, but Rebecca's attention has already moved on. There's a slightly ragged blanket on the seat next to where Desmond had been sitting, and Rebecca can't place where it had come from. It's so distinctive, she's sure she would have remembered if she'd seen it before. Maybe Desmond had found it in the grave? It does look old. She shrugs and stuffs it into the bag as well.

And then… she hesitates. These things are important to Desmond. Rebecca isn't quite ready to let go of him yet.

As quietly as she can, Rebecca tucks the bag into a box labelled _animus parts_ , and grabs a second bag to throw out at the next stop instead. Bill doesn't even look at her as she tosses it into a garbage can at a rest stop, so he never knows that she's just thrown away a few busted up laptop pieces instead of Desmond's stuff.

That is still sitting, hidden and mislabeled, on a box on the van's floor.

-//-

At that very moment, Desmond is waking up. _There is so much pain_. His arm is on fire, and someone is cutting into his chest, and Desmond screams with a pain he has never felt before. His hidden blade is still strapped to his arm and he brings it up before his eyes are even open, stabbing blindly. A heavy weight collapses on top of him, and Desmond rolls away, waves of shock and pain and horror coursing through his body.

There is a dead man at his side, and a scalpel buried in his chest, and a score of men in Abstergo uniforms staring at him. And no visitors, no visitors at all. Desmond shouts, calling their names as if that will somehow summon them there—he wants them, he _needs_ them, there is so much pain and he's not thinking just at this moment but he knows that they will make everything alright.

He wants to see their faces around him, as they had been when he touched the eye, he wants to feel Edward hold him as he had so often in the past, he wants Haytham, he wants—

No one comes, and Desmond shouts himself hoarse calling for them even as he cuts a terrified, bloody path through the templars that have come to… to what? Cut apart his body? Claim the temple? He doesn't know, and he doesn't really care. They're all dead now.

The pain very slowly starts to fade, enough that Desmond is able to really look at his arm. It's black and burned, like a bit of charcoal more than anything. It doesn't look like a real arm anymore, and Desmond stares at it in horrified revulsion. That can't be his. He still needs his arm. It—no…

He can't stand to look at it. Can't stand to see the bodies (he's killed them, he can't believe... it had been so easy). Can't stand the silence of being without his visitors.

This is the first moment that it really hits him—because they should be here. They would be here, if they could, but they aren't. And somehow Desmond knows, deep down in his bones, that he won't be visited again. Which is funny, almost, because he doesn't care anymore if they're real or not, he just… he needs them so badly, he is so scared and alone and hurt…

Desmond drags himself out of the temple. He can't bear the smell of the dying any longer, although it is marginally better than the smell (like barbeque) that follows him outside. His phone is still in his pocket, so he texts Shaun, then Rebecca. _Not_ his father, although he knows they'll just tell him anyway.

 _Help_ , he sends. _Help_.

It seems to take ages for them to finally return. When the van finally pulls up, it's dark again. By this point, Desmond is curled up as small as he can get, leaning against a tree with his burned arm held out behind him, out of his line of vision. The other arm clutches at his lion like a lifeline, fingers tracing the roughly embroidered _H_ that Haytham had added hundreds of years ago. He presses it into his chest, hugging it hard and shaking. Hopefully it won't pick up the bloodstains soaking into his skin and clothes.

"Desmond?" Rebecca calls, jumping out of the van and running over to him. "Desmond, are you— _fuck._ "

She must have seen his arm.

"They're gone," Desmond whispers. Rebecca doesn't seem to hear.

"Hang on a second," she says, squeezing his elbow (the one attached to his good arm). She runs back toward the van, and disappears into the back. A moment later she returns, and Desmond feels something rough and warm and familiar being draped over him. It's Connor's blanket, the one he'd shared with Desmond only hours before.

Desmond pulls it closer around his shoulders, clumsy with only one hand. Then he readjusts the fabric, pulling one edge up and over his head like a hood. That feels better.

"Come on," Rebecca says softly. Shaun approaches Desmond from the other side, and between the two of them they manage to get Desmond on his feet and moving. "You're in shock," Rebecca whispers, rubbing comforting circles onto his back. "We'll get you to a hospital."

He shrugs a fraction. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters.

By the time they get to a hospital his father thinks is safe, Desmond has started to calm down a little. His brain starts working again, and he manages to clumsily explain what had happened. As much as he understands, anyway. He doesn't mention his visitors, or their abrupt loss.

-//-

"You sound better," Shaun says awkwardly, when Desmond has been admitted into the hospital some while later and helped into a bed. Desmond's father and Rebecca are talking to some nurses outside, probably making up some story to explain the nightmare that is his arm.

"I guess," Desmond says. "My arm still hurts."

Shaun doesn't quite look at it. "Yea, well. I can believe it." He glances at Connor's blanket—Rebecca had spread it over Desmond's bed before leaving—and then at the lion that Desmond is still cradling tightly. "Where did you get all that stuff, anyway?"

"It doesn't matter," Desmond lies. "Just—don't let dad take them away. Please?"

"I'll do what I can," Shaun says doubtfully. The phrase _but he does whatever he wants_ hangs unspoken between them. Then Shaun changes the subject, tries to joke. "Hey. It's been… what, three hours and you're still speaking English? That has to be a new record."

Desmond forces a smile. "I'm not bleeding."

"Hey!" Shaun tries to look cheerful as well. "Something good came out of all this."

"Yea."

The conversation dies. Desmond inches downward, pulling the blanket up toward his chin, tucking his lion in next to him. Haytham the lion and Connor's blanket—he can almost imagine the two of them cuddling when he looks at their gifts like this. He'll never see either of them again. Desmond realizes his eyes are drifting closed, and Shaun gives him an awkward pat on the back. "Get some sleep," he says. "We'll make sure nothing bad happens while you're out."

"Yea," Desmond mumbles. "Not like things can get any worse, anyway…"


	56. Chapter 56

Altair finds himself abruptly somewhere warm, and he has just enough time to process that he is in fact visiting before Edward falls on top of him.

"Get off me," Altair grumbles, pushing Edward away. Edward responds by giggling—not laughing, _giggling_ —and wrapping his arms around Altair's chest. It's distinctly uncomfortable, and Altair is in no mood to put up with any kind of Edward today. Much less—he gags on a lungful of Edward's rum soaked breath, and manages to get away from Edward without much effort. The man is obviously too drunk to put up a real fight—Altair looks around and is not surprised to see that they are in a tavern. "You're a disgrace, Edward, you really are."

"Aw." Edward struggles to his feet, swaying uncomfortably. He puts a heavy hand on Edward's shoulder, and Altair reluctantly allows it because the alternative is Edward falling on him again. "Don't be—" he trips over his words, making an exaggerated face. "Don't be such a _sploilsport_."

"That's not a word—"

"You're so _grumpy_ ," Edward complains. Altair frowns at him, and Edward clumsily sticks his fingers onto Altair's face, attempting to force his expression upward into a smile. Altair slaps him away.

"Do not do that," he says firmly. "And I am not…" he makes a face. "I am not grumpy." He doesn't know exactly why he goes on speaking, but perhaps it is better for him to speak than for Edward to continue his assault on the English language. "I was simply in the middle of an argument with a…" what is Malik, a friend? "With a brother when I found myself here. It's left me in no mood to deal with your antics today." He's at a loss over what to do about Malik, honestly—Altair has killed most of his targets already, and he believes that he is beginning to mature. Other assassins in other cities have noticed and begun to soften toward him, but Malik seems determined to carry his anger until the day he dies. It is… frustrating. And upsetting.

"Hey!" Edward leans away from Altair, pulling his hand uncomfortably around Altair's neck. "Hey, Kidd!"

Edward's friend Mary emerges from the crowd and gives him a skeptical look. She's holding a bottle of her own, and her cheeks are rather pinker than Altair remembers them being the last time he'd seen her, but she is still significantly more sober than Edward. "What is it now, Kenway?" she asks, sliding somewhat gracelessly into a seat nearby.

"Altair said I'm an ant."

She doubles over laughing, but Altair doesn't see anything funny about it. "I said antics, not ant—"

"You—" there is a pointing finger in his face. It is Edward's. "You need to get drunk," Edward says, with absoluter certainty. "It'll cheer you up."

"No."

"Yes!"

" _No_ , Edward."

"What are you arguing about?" Kidd asks, finally recovering from her laughter.

"I'm tellin' him he needs to get drunk!" Edward explains. "And stop worrying so much!"

"It couldn't hurt," Kidd says, looking in Altair's general direction. She must be guessing where he is based on the place Edward keeps looking. "You have to let loose occasionally, or you'll—"

"Turn into a boring, boring person," Edward interrupts.

"That's not what I was going to say," Kidd mutters.

"Here," Edward says, turning back to Altair. "Either you agree to get drunk, or you're goin' in my body."

"Absolutely not," Altair says, as firmly as he can manage. "Edward, don't you dare—"

He falls suddenly, because the world is shifting under him and his legs feel like water. Altair tries to be annoyed, but it's suddenly much more difficult to hold onto the feeling. It's drifting away on a hazy cloud of rum, and it's not all bad. Everything looks suddenly nicer—the dingy tavern feels warm and welcoming instead of dirty and smelly, and—oh.

He looks up at Mary, and she looks a lot more intriguing all of a sudden. There was something about her, a sort of fire, and the trousers and men's shirts are… they're—well. Altair tries two or three times, and eventually manages to sit down next to Kidd. She laughs at him, but not unkindly. "Altair?"

He nods, a big heavy gesture. "Y'know," he says, and it's funny how the words all kind of jumble up together on the way out of his mouth. "First time I saw you, thought there was som—somethin' special about you."

"Did you?" Kidd asks, and she's still laughing. Altair stares at her mouth and wonders how he's never spent any time looking at mouths before. The way it stretches open when she smiles, the color—Altair is suddenly itching to know what it would feel like under his own. He leans over to her, almost falling again, and kisses her cheek. He's aiming for her mouth, but misses.

Edward is shouting at him, blah blah blah, probably nothing important. Why is he so upset? Altair isn't, for the first time in…

…

He stops trying to remember the last time he hadn't been upset or worried about _something_. Altair turns his head away from Kidd, and shushes Edward loudly. His complaining is distracting.

"Kenway raising a fuss?" Kidd asks.

"Yes," Altair agrees.

"He doesn't like it when his visitors kiss me," Kidd says.

"Do _you_ like it?" Altair asks, and Edward lets out a loud, dramatic groan behind them.

"I don't mind," she says, and Altair learns a thing or two from her and her _extremely_ interesting mouth in the next few minutes.


	57. Chapter 57

There are flowers on Evie's bedside table when she gets back to the train, and she's not sure why. She picks them up, turning them over in her hands and frowning down at the bright colors. They look out of place there, tucked between the toy she'd taken from the Kenway mansion and a handful of throwing knives she keeps forgetting to clean the blood from.

They're beautiful, but she's not entirely sure they're meant for her. Jacob has taken to inviting his Rooks onto the train, and he's been surprisingly decent about including both men and women in his little gang (Evie still remembers the club he'd started when they were about ten, the one where the only rule was _no girls allowed_ —she'd retaliated by emptying a box of carefully collected ants onto his bed in the middle of the night). Surely the flowers are meant for one of them, and Evie had ended up with them by mistake.

She turns to the door and sees a middle aged woman she doesn't recognize standing there. "Sorry," Evie says. She's flustered, more flustered than she should be by the discovery of flowers meant for someone else next to her bed. Why? It's not like she wants that, of course not. She's an assassin, not some swooning noblewomen. She holds the flowers out to the woman. "Are these yours?"

The woman laughs. "I don't think so," she says. "Since I'm just here visiting you."

"What?"

She stops laughing, and looks at Evie in concern. "Altair told the rest of us that you knew about visiting," she says. "Did you—"

"Oh!" Idiot. Of course, she should have been able to tell immediately that this woman isn't really here. Evie can almost see right through her. "Right. I just wasn't thinking, I was—"

"Distracted?" she asks, looking down the flowers. Evie nods.

"I was just going to look for the person they belong to," Evie says. "I think—they're nice. It would be a pity if the intended recipient didn't get them because they accidentally ended up with me instead."

"How do they know they're not yours?" the woman asks, pulling them gently out of Evie's loose grip and striding past her, back toward Evie's little section of the train. Evie trails after her, sinking down onto her bed. "They were left in here, weren't they? I can't imagine they were meant for anyone else."

"Who are you?" Evie asks. She's starting to gather her wits again, and there are half a hundred things she'd rather be talking about than _flowers_ as long as she has a visitor here.

"Aveline," the woman says, settling onto the bed next to Evie. It's a bit close, two heavily armed women crowded together like this, but in all fairness there aren't many other options in these cramped quarters.

"Aveline," Evie echoes. She can't think of any famous assassins with that name, although there's no doubt of Aveline's allegiance, not with her clothes and her blades.

Aveline nods, still looking down at the flowers. "Why are these supposedly not for you?"

"Because—" it's so obvious that Evie has no idea where to start. "Because there's no one that would send them to me, I suppose."

"No lover or husband?" Aveline asks.

Evie shakes her head.

"What about your brother, then? Ezio told me you have one."

This time, Evie laughs aloud. "No," she says firmly. "Absolutely not."

"Hmm." Aveline appears to be considering this. "There was a nervous looking Indian man in the next car over when I came in," she says. "I suppose they might be from him."

"Oh," Evie says, relief rushing through her. "That's just Henry."

"Henry?" Aveline asks, raising an eyebrow.

"There's a fashion at the moment," Evie explains. "Different flowers are supposed to represent different things—love, loyalty, things like that. He just asked me to help him understand it a little bit better—it's been a bit of fun in the midst of everything else, that's all. These flowers must be related to that research."

Aveline gives her a flat look. "Really," she says.

"Well it makes more sense than anything else."

"Evie…" Aveline leans forward, gently placing the flowers in Evie's lap. She pats Evie sympathetically on the knee. "I'm only going to say this because I wish someone had said it to my husband back when I was first trying to attract his attention."

"What?"

"Open your eyes!" Aveline says, laughing. "There's someone so obviously in love with you that a complete stranger picked up on it in seconds. You'll be happier if you admit it to yourself now."

"He doesn't love me." Evie stands up, carrying the flowers with her to the window. "It wouldn't be appropriate, and he knows that."

"Evie—"

"Assassins shouldn't care for one another like that," Evie says firmly. "That's what father always taught us—Jacob and me, I mean. Don't let personal feelings compromise the mission." She opens the window and throws the flowers through. It is a relief to watch them snatched away by the wind outside, scattering in every direction. She doesn't fear much, but she is afraid of what those flowers could have represented.

"Evie!" Aveline protests, her voice torn between surprise and outrage. "You're worse than Shay ever was."

"No," Evie says firmly. She has no idea who this Shay is, but she knows she's made the right choice. "Mr. Green and I are both too intelligent to make a mistake like falling in love. We have to work together, you see. And there's no way we can do that if we're emotionally compromised."

Aveline opens her mouth, closes it—then shakes her head in disappointment. "This Henry," she says. "You call him intelligent."

"He is," Evie agrees. "He's been a great help in tracking targets and gathering information."

"You also said he understands."

"Well—better than Jacob does," Evie allows. "He knows what it means to be an assassin, it's not all just running around causing trouble, it's—a cause, it's something to fight for and believe in."

"And," Aveline goes on quietly. "You said that you've enjoyed learning more about the meanings of these flowers with him, even though flowers are obviously not something you care for much. You said it's been fun."

"I wouldn't say fun, exactly," Evie says uncomfortably. She can see where Aveline is going with this, but she's not entirely sure she wants to think about it. "But…"

"He's intelligent, he understands you, and you have fun together," Aveline says quietly. "But you won't even consider that he might love you? Or that you might love him?"

"I don't—I _can't_ —father always said that such feelings are wrong. Only a distraction."

Aveline rises on silent feet, and puts her arm quietly around Evie's shoulder. "It's not wrong," she says quietly. "To care for people. In my opinion, it is the greatest strength a person can have."

Evie tries to speak, and is quite surprised to find that she is too choked up to manage a single word. Aveline holds her tighter, and Evie thinks (bizarrely, irrationally) that her mother would have been the same age Aveline is now, had she survived giving birth.

"It would not be wrong to fall in love with an assassin," Aveline says firmly. "I have been married to both an assassin and a templar, and loved them both. I don't regret either of those choices—they are good men that made me a better person."

"You married a templar?" Evie asks. "How did that work out?"

"Very well," Aveline says. "We have three sons and a daughter, all of them dearer to me than life. I'm not saying you're guaranteed a happy ending like that with your Henry—" But he isn't _Evie's_ Henry, is he? He can't be, because that would be letting her emotions compromise the mission, and that's the one thing father had always insisted she learn. "But if you ask me, it's worth a try."

Her eyes are wet. More emotions—is this common with visitors, she wonders? Maybe she's lucky this is only temporary. "You must think I'm such a fool," she says, and Aveline responds by shaking her head. It's reassuring, comforting even. Evie still feels a fool, in any case. Aveline very kindly stands there with her, arm around her shoulders, until Evie manages to get herself under control again. Her eyes are still drying when Henry, _of all people_ , comes into the car.

He is more hesitant than usual, hovering without coming in. His eyes pass straight over Aveline, who doesn't seem at all surprised to be invisible to him, and focus on Evie. "Miss Frye," he says, and for just a moment he smiles. "I wondered—I left something here for you earlier, and I wondered if you had seen it yet."

Evie can't help glancing out the open window where she'd thrown the flowers. Then she looks back at Henry. Aveline holds her reassuringly. Evie takes a deep breath. If Aveline is right, if… if she _does_ love Henry (and how would she know, really? She's never allowed herself to even consider such things before), this would be the perfect moment to say something.

"No," Evie says. "No, there was nothing here."

"Oh." He actually takes a step back, and Evie feels terrible as she watches his expression cross from confusion to disappointment. "Well I—it wasn't terribly important."

"Alright," Evie says. He turns to go, and she calls out, on impulse—"I'm sorry."

He doesn't answer, and soon enough he is out of sight.

Aveline shakes her head, and says, "It's never too late to change your mind."

"How can I change my mind when I don't understand it?"

"Then maybe that's as good a place as any to start," Aveline says kindly, just before she vanishes.

Evie does not talk to Henry for a week after that. She puts away the book she had been using to collect his pressed flowers, and stops looking for new ones to add. When they begin talking again, Evie finds herself stumbling and stuttering around him. Things are different now.

And the worst of it is that she still has no idea if she loves Henry. She does not know her own mind well enough. But she misses him, she knows that much. So eventually Evie goes to a flower cart, and she buys a bunch of Hyacinth (Meaning: I am sorry, please forgive me, sorrow). At the last moment, she adds a single sprig of Laurustinus (Meaning: I die if neglected).

She leaves it for Henry at his shop, and walks away hoping that she can make things right. That they can be friends again. She is not yet sure if she loves him, but she is certain now that she does not want to be without him.

Evie is glad when Henry strikes up a conversation with her the next day as if nothing had happened--finally, they are friends again. And if they are to be more than that... well, that is a problem for another day.


	58. Chapter 58

Once, just once, Evie is the visitor instead of the visitee. It happens on the afternoon of a quite unremarkable Thursday, as she leapfrogs from ship to ship across the Thames. It's not the most efficient way across the river. She could steal a carriage and cross the bridge, or even ride the train to the other side—but she rather enjoys this test of her free running skills, the way the ships sway and bob under her running feet. It's a habit she's picked up only recently, and in large part because of the visitors that keep appearing to her.

They are teaching her something, and slowly—so slowly that she is sometimes ashamed—Evie is learning. To care more for those around her, her brother and his friends. Some of them are even becoming _her_ friends, which is an odd feeling—A few months ago, Evie would have dismissed them all as unimportant to her mission. Now, she is coming to appreciate that there is something to be said for having people to lean on and trust. And there is Henry, of course, Henry who Evie is beginning to see in an entirely new light. Ever since Aveline suggested he might just love her, Evie catches herself thinking as if she loves him in return. She is trying to give herself time to consider it from a logical point of view, to reason out her opinion of him. But it's like some part of her mind has already jumped to the conclusion that she is in love with him, and when she sees him now her face flushes, her heart speeds up, she can't think of anything _but_ him. It's a very strange feeling, and not at all familiar.

Evie has not been able to bring herself to discuss it with Henry himself yet.

But the visitors have not only changed the way she opens up to people, the way she considers them as more than just obstacles to completing a mission or reaching a target. Evie is learning to value the places around her—she thinks often of the fondness in Haytham's eyes when he looked at his childhood home, or the excitement she'd seen in Ezio when he saw something new and different in her rope launcher. She's trying to appreciate things in the same way.

That's how she takes up dashing across the ships slowly chugging across the Thames instead of taking the easier route over the bridge. Sometimes Jacob joins her (he's absolutely delighted by this new game) and today they are racing from one bank to the other. Evie is winning, but only just. She pauses for a moment, considering where to go next, and then—

And then suddenly, she is not. She's just reached the highest sail of one of the few sailing ships left on the river, a small, slow, unimpressive vessel with a crew of four, when she finds herself quite unexpectedly somewhere else.

She stumbles and looks around, noticing first that she is on a much larger ship (flying a black flag, she sees—a pirate's flag) on a very different body of water. Then she sees the blond man at her side, laughing at her shocked expression. "So you're her?" he asks.

"Who?"

"You!"

"What?"

The man looks enormously pleased by the pointlessness of this conversation, tilting his head back and letting out a strangely familiar laugh. Evie is still wracking her brain to figure out where she's heard it before when he calms a bit and grins crookedly at her. "You're Evie Frye, aren't you?"

"And apparently you visitors have nothing better to talk about than me," Evie says, a bit more coolly than she might have usually. It's just that she's still so thrown by suddenly being somewhere (and when?) else that it's easiest to default back to the stiff, distant way of talking to people that she's been trying to move past in the last few months. "Every time I meet one of you, you already know who I am."

"Shay told me."

"Who?"

"You might not have met him yet," he says casually. "Visiting doesn't always happen in order."

"But—doesn't that make things confusing?" Evie asks, staring at him. "You'd never know where you were with anyone. At least I'm only meeting everyone once, it's not that hard."

"Oh, it's not so bad," the man says dismissively. "Take that conversation with Shay I just metioned—I was saying something about him and Aveline, but it turned out this was a Shay from before they got together. Now see, most people, they would have tried to figure out where Shay was on his timeline before saying something, but I don't see the point. It's so much easier to just go ahead and say things, and then if people shout at you, that means you shouldn't have said it. But anyway, I brought up Aveline, so Shay got all flustered and changed the subject. You came up, and so here we are."

"So Shay is Aveline's husband?" Evie asks. She's thinking of the obvious affection in Aveline's voice when she'd spoken of her husband during her visit, and fitting this unknown Shay into what Aveline had said.

"Oh yes," the man says. "Only don't tell him, he'll just shout at you for spoiling things."

"Noted," Evie says dismissively. She's not sure it'll ever come up. "And not to change the subject, but who exactly are _you?"_

"Haven't I introduced myself?" He laughs again, and Evie is struck for a second time by how familiar that laugh sounds. "Edward Kenway."

"Oh!" So _that's_ where she's heard that laugh before. It's just the same as Haytham's, only a little louder and a little more confident, like he gets the chance to laugh more often than his son. But the way he tilts his head, the way his eyes squint up and into a smile for a moment, the sound of it—all exactly the same. Evie doesn't think she'll ever forget the sound of Haytham (a templar, the _enemy_ ) genuinely laughing at the so-called hidden room in his father's house that could only be unlocked by playing a piano at full volume.

"Oh?" Edward looks pleased. "So you've heard of me?"

"I've met your son," she tells him.

"Really? Didn't even know I had a son."

Evie stares at him. How can he not know that Haytham is a visitor? Or is it possible that he hasn't made the connection between a fully grown visitor and a child he apparently hasn't yet had? But wouldn't another visitor having the same surname at least make him suspicious? Evie feels her eyebrows draw together as she tries to figure all this out, and Edward stares back at her in similar confusion. They might have continued this indefinitely except that another man breaks into their conversation.

"In the middle of one of your visits, Kenway?" he asks. "Or are you just staring at nothing for fun now?"

Edward brightens. "Evie!" he says. "This is Ma—my friend, Kidd."

"He's a visitor?"

"No. But he knows about you lot."

"I don't think I'm part of any lot," Evie says doubtfully. "I'm sort of temporary."

"She's a visiting visitor," Edward explains to Kidd. "Apparently I only get to meet her the once."

"And do _I_ get to meet her?" Kidd asks

"How could he meet me?" Evie asks. "Aren't you the only one that can see me?"

"Oh, sure," Edward says. "Unless I let you borrow my body."

"That sounds—you want to— _what_?"

"You know the rules," Edward says sternly, turning back to Kidd. "No kissing."

"I'll kiss who I want to," Kidd says. "It's not my fault your visitors keep assaulting me with your tongue."

"Poor you," Edward says unsympathetically. "Anyway this one's new. So be nice."

And then all of a sudden, without any warning or transition whatsoever, Evie finds herself in Edward's body (which is almost a relief, actually—for a moment, she'd thought his suggestion that she 'borrow his body' was some sort of strange suggestion that they should sleep together). He doesn't quite fit—being in his skin is like wearing a pair of clothes that's been tailored for someone else, secondhand and a little bit shabby. And Edward's drunk—definitely drunk, which means that now Evie is drunk. She suddenly feels warm and relaxed and just a bit off balance, which maybe explains the way the rest of the conversation goes.

"So you're Evie?" Kidd asks, looking her over. "Can't say I've heard of you."

"Can't say I've heard of you either," Evie says genially. "Do Edward's visitors _really_  kiss you often?"

"Aye," Kidd says. "Although not quite as often as Edward makes it sound. The stories he tells when he's had too much to drink, he's certainly kissed more of them than I have."

"Oi!" Edward protests.

"D'you think…" and later, Evie will _absolutely_ blame Edward's drunkenness for both the way her words slur together and the question itself. "D'you think you'd want to kiss another one?"

"Evie, no!"

"Sure," Kidd laughs. "If you're offering. It's worth it just for the look on Edward's face when he takes his body back."

Evie grins. "It's just—there's this man, and I'm falling in love with him." Her mouth announces this with an absolute certainty that her brain doesn't entirely agree with yet. But the admission feels warm and right in her chest, so she goes on. "But I don't know how to say anything to him." Or catch him alone on the train and tear his clothes off and kiss him until everything is alright, which seems like an increasingly good idea the longer she stands here being drunk.

"So you want to practice on me?" Kidd laughs.

"Why not?" Evie shrugs. "Sounds like you're used to it."

"Seems reasonable to me," Kidd laughs, and the next moment his mouth is pressed against Evie's, warm and wet and alive in a way Evie hadn't quite expected. Evie is startled for a moment, but this is nothing like what she'd expected, and she's suddenly hungry to know more. She leans forward, pressing herself against Kidd, wrapping an arm around him, and almost shivering in satisfaction as Kidd's hand starts to stray to unexpected places as well. The tiny part of her brain that is still working notices that there's something off about Kidd's shape against her, but mostly she's thinking about Henry. If kissing Kidd, a man she's not particularly attracted to, in a body that's not even hers, feels this good... how much better would it be with Henry?

It's not like Evie has much experience in the matter, but Kidd seems like an extremely well-practiced kisser. Maybe it's all the visitors he's apparently been spending time with. The kiss lasts long enough for Evie to learn a good deal more than she'd expected to, and also long enough that Edward actually gives up shouting protests at the two of them and starts pouting instead, leaning against the rail next to the ship's wheel and slouching a bit.

Eventually though, they stop. Evie is quite breathless by now, and there's something bothering her. She tilts her head sideways, considering Kidd, who breaks the silence first. "You're not half bad," he says approvingly. "I'm sure your friend wouldn't mind if you wanted to practice with him next time." Evie thinks again of Henry, and blushes, smiling a self-conscious little smile and twisting her fingers bashfuly together. Kidd laughs at her and raises his voice, apparently addressing Edward. "I don't think I've ever seen you embarrassed before, Kenway," he says. "It's cute."

"Don't call my body _cute_!" Edward says, appalled. Evie laughs, then hiccups.

"He didn't like that," she stage whispers to Kidd. It's hard to really whisper, because she can't stop smiling at Kidd's suggestion that Henry wouldn't mind trying what they'd just done.

"Didn't think he would," Kidd says, winking at Evie. "For a pirate, he's a bit of a prude."

"Only when it's my body!" Edward shouts. He remains unheard by Kidd, and unheeded by Evie.

"Y'know what, though?" Evie says, again more loudly than she'd intended. She's finally figured out what's bothering her about Kidd.

"What?"

"I kissed you to practice kissing Henry," Evie says seriously. "But you remind me more of my friend Ned than of Henry. Which is strange, because he used to be a woman, and you are clearly a man."

Kidd doubles over laughing, and Edward opens his mouth like he's about to say something, only he can't find the words. Evie never has a chance to figure out what's so funny, because she's suddenly back in her own body, in her own time, standing in exactly the same place she had been in when she left. And now she's abruptly sober, and _horrifyingly_ aware of everything she's just done with and said to a pair of pirates that have both been dead for decades.

She doesn't move, just crouches in place, replaying every embarrassing moment of that visit and feeling absurdly grateful that she will never have to see Edward Kenway again. Jacob rushes past her as she's still sitting there in horrified confusion, calling out a taunt. Evie doesn't move. She doesn't even blink. After a moment Jacob comes back, more slowly and with obvious concern on his face.

"Hey, Evie!" he calls. "Evie, you alright? You look like you're a million miles away."

Well, that's one way of putting it.

"I just did something stupid," she mumbles, not quite looking at him. He crouches down next to her.

"Well it's about time!" Jacob says. "It's not fair that I have to keep doing enough stupid things for both of us. You have to do your share, you know."

"Do I?"

"Oh yes," Jacob says seriously. "Very important."

"Well—" she thinks of Henry, and something in her goes warm and bright. It's a little bit like the feeling of intoxication she'd had in Edward's body, only there's no alcohol involved this time. "I think I'm going to tell Henry I love him."

"Evie…" Jacob shakes his head in mock disappointment. "If telling the man who is obviously and hopelessly in love with you that you have feelings for him as well is your idea of stupid, there may be no saving you. You'll be doomed to be the boring, responsible twin forever."

Evie doesn't rise to the obvious bait. Not this time. "Do you really think he likes me?"

Jacob just looks at her for a moment, and then his teasing smile melts into something kinder. He kisses her on the forehead, the way he had when they were six and Evie had broken father's hidden blade—she'd stolen it from his study, and then been caught trying to put the broken pieces back. Father had shouted and shouted, and by the end Evie had felt like she was going to burst with the effort of trying not to cry. In the aftermath, Jacob had scolded her for caring so much about father's disappointment, then kissed her on the top of her head and begged her to play with him until she finally gave up and let go of her bad mood.

Today, Evie closes her eyes and leans her head against his shoulder. Once in a while, it is nice to not have to be strong.

"Come on," Jacob says softly, pulling Evie to her feet. "He'll be at his shop, won't he? You can tell him everything, and then he can stop begging me for advice to make you notice him."

"Has he been doing that?"

Jacob rolls his eyes. "Only every time I see him. I always tell him you're going to die a boring old maid spinster assassin, but he won't listen." He gives her a little shove. "So go see him and prove me wrong, alright?"

"Alright," Evie agrees, and she takes her first hesitant steps inland, toward Henry.

By the time she reaches the bank, she is running.


	59. Chapter 59

She's failed.

The weight of the key where it had hung around Evie's neck is gone, replaced by the weight of _shame_ and of _failure_. She should have been better, she should have been less cocky and convinced that she can do no wrong. Now Lucy Thorne has taken it away, she's one step closer to the shroud, and Evie is sitting here like an idiot, in the tower where they'd fought for the key (where Thorne had won and Evie had _lost_ ). And she's crying.

It's stupid, tears have never done anyone any good, and Evie isn't even sad—she's angry and ashamed and frustrated, and the tears are hot and heavy on her face. Evie sits against the wall, just under the broken window that Thorn had fallen out of (victorious, clutching the key in one hand). A stiff breeze whistles against the broken glass, blowing Evie's hair out of its careful arrangement of braids. She ducks her head down, putting her face in her hands, and completely fails to stop crying.

What will Henry say, when he learns of this? He's been working with her on this since the beginning, he knows how important it is to get the pieces of Eden before the templars do. Evie can already imagine the look on his face, the flash of disappointment before he schools his expression into something more sympathetic and tries to assure her that they'll be able to bounce back from this. Somehow.

Jacob will be even worse. He's never believed in what the pieces of Eden can do, and he'll think it's so funny that Evie has messed this up. They're getting along better these days, but Jacob still seems to think the pieces of Eden are fair game for making fun of his sister. He's going to have a field day with this, he's never going to let her forget that she screwed up.

"Are you alright?"

Shit, shit, _shit_. Just what she needs right now, a visitor. She hadn't heard anyone else come in, and even distracted by her failure and her tears, she knows she would have. Logically, it must be a visitor. "Fine," Evie mumbles. "I'm f—fine." She doesn't look up to see who it is. Not like it would matter. She doesn't get repeats, so she wouldn't recognize the visitor anyway. Bizarrely, she finds herself wishing for Aveline. The comfort had been nice when she was first struggling to acknowledge her feelings for Henry. It would be good to have that again.

"You don't look fine," the man's voice is gentle, and closer than it had been before—when Evie finally looks up, she sees a man (a templar, going by his clothes) crouching in front of her. There is gray streaked through his hair, and something sympathetic in his eyes. Evie stiffens instinctively at the sight of his clothing, and then forces herself to relax. It's okay. He's a visitor, and she's sure someone would have warned her by now if she had anything to worry about from one of them. Besides, Haytham had been a templar too, and Evie had quite liked him.

"I’m just…" Can she tell him? Evie stares at the unknown templar for a moment, then drops her eyes to the floor. "I'm trying to find a piece of Eden, and I lost the key I need to get to it."

"Ah." He settles down on the floor next to her, maintaining a carefully respectful distance. "Those damned artifacts always seem to do more harm than good."

Evie wipes (again, pointlessly) at the tears running down her face. At this point it's really not doing anything but spreading them around. "Not a fan?" she asks, in a weak, rather watery voice.

"No," he says firmly. There's a brief pause when neither of them says anything, and then he says, "I'm Shay."

"Evie," she says, and he nods like he already knows. "Edward told me about you. Sort of."

"Don't believe anything that man says," Shay tells her at once, so quickly and urgently that Evie manages a laugh.

"He's very strange," she agrees.

"Not all bad, though," Shay says reflectively. "I mean, on the one hand I can't blame Altair for throwing him off a building that one time, but—"

"He did _what_?" Evie asks.

"Oh, he deserved it," Shay says dismissively, and Evie laughs again (more genuinely than the first time) because she can absolutely believe that Edward had been asking for it. "I don't know exactly what he'd done, but I'm sure he deserved it. But that's not everything he is. He's a good father, I know—he loves Jenny and Haytham more than life. And he does mature as he gets older. He's the kind of person you'd want on your side in a fight. Just not the kind of person you'd want around your wife."

"I don't think he'd want me around," Evie says. "I kissed his friend Kidd."

Shay pats her hand comfortingly. "Even Altair has done that," he says. "It's not a big deal, Edward just likes to kick up a fuss about everything."

"I'm jealous," Evie admits softly. It's Shay's gentle fondness of Edward's peculiarities that wrings the admission from her. "It isn't fair that I get to meet all of you and then I have to say goodbye again. I'm on the outside looking at this great…" she struggles for the right word to describe the visitors she's had already. Friendship seems too trite, relationship too clinical. "Family," she finishes at last. "You're all a family, and all I can do is watch from the outside. I'm jealous of that."

"It took us a long time to get this far," Shay says. "We made a lot of mistakes, and we hurt each other in a lot of ways before we really came to care for each other. You'll find your own set of people that you can care about, and that care about you."

He gets up, and offers to help Evie to her feet as well—but she scrambles to her feet on her own. She's finally managed to stop crying, although she is no closer to figuring out what to do about the key, and that frustration still tingles like electricity just under her skin. "I do have my brother," she says, as much to reassure herself as to inform Shay. "And Henry. I'm not entirely without friends. I'm just—upset at the moment. That's all."

He nods understandingly. "You know, Evie," he says. "You _do_ have us as well. Even if we can't be here with you again, you were one of us for a time. There aren't so many of us that we'll forget you quickly."

"Thank you," Evie says quietly. It's sort of exactly what she needs to hear at the moment. "And I won't forget you, either. Not any of you. Not _ever_."

"Will you let me give you a piece of advice, then?" Shay asks. "Don't go after this piece of Eden you've fixated on. They do nothing but cause hurt and harm. Humanity would be better off if they'd all been lost."

Evie sighs and shakes her head. "Thank you for the advice," she says. "But I can't take it. This is too important."

Shay gives her a sad look, and shakes his head. "I hope you're right. I do."

He vanishes on her then, and Evie takes a moment to compose herself before climbing carefully through the shattered window and descending to the ground below.


	60. Chapter 60

It's a beautiful afternoon, and for once there is nobody to kill. Evie had been planning to spend the day holed up on the train, catching up on sleep, but Jacob has convinced her to spend the day outside, with him. "Somewhere green," he'd said vaguely. "I don’t know."

So they'd packed some food, and found a park that's not too crowded, and spent a surprisingly peaceful afternoon together. For once, it's easy to pretend that they are not assassins, that they do not carry the weight of too many responsibilities on their shoulders. Evie rests against a large shade tree, watching Jacob's antics as he runs around showing off for her. Honestly, sometimes she thinks he's still eight years old.

It's one of his best qualities.

"Evie!" he shouts now, cupping his hands around his mouth so she'll hear him—he's a fair distance away, but he's also got an absurdly loud voice, so Evie has no problem hearing him. "I'll be right back, Evie, I just saw—hey!"

She laughs as something new catches his attention and he goes barreling after it. She's still laughing when the pale man with the guarded expression materializes out of thin air beside her. Evie knows at once that he's a visitor by the unusual clothes he's wearing, but also because he doesn't look quite real. Evie sits up a little straighter and puts out a hand. "Hello," she says. "I'm Evie."

He stares at her hand like it might be something dangerous, and Evie wonders if he's looking at the hidden blade she's still wearing (even if it is her day off, that's no reason to let her guard down). Maybe he's not an assassin? But no—Evie can see a hidden blade on the stranger's arm as well. When he doesn't take her hand after several more seconds, Evie lets it drop and looks at him in concern. She doesn't know this man, but… none of the other visitors had known her when they tried to help her, had they?

"Are you alright?" she asks softly. "Are you hurt?"

The man doesn't say anything. He seems to be thinking about the question, really considering it, and the longer he struggles the more it becomes obvious to Evie that he _must_ be hurt, even if that hurt doesn't show physically. He reminds her of an old assassin she'd met as a child—a good man, her father had said, but templars had killed his wife and infant son in front of him. He'd just checked out after that, going quiet and living inside his own head instead of the real world. This visitor seems just the same.

After a while, his hand darts out and touches Evie on the shoulder. "Oh," he says. He sounds disappointed. "You feel real."

"Why shouldn't I?"

He eases back, away from her. "It doesn't matter," he says. "I'm just…" he trails off, reconsidering whatever he'd been about to say. "I'm Desmond."

"Desmond," she repeats. Another name she doesn't know. "Where are you from?"

"America," he says.

"So do you live around any of the others?" Evie asks. "A lot of your visitors are from that area, aren't they?" She's been doing research into all the visitors she doesn't already recognize (Altair and Ezio she'd already known of, and she'd done some research into the Kenways before breaking into their old home), learning about the causes they'd fought for, their lives both inside and outside their work—she'd been quite surprised to be able to track Shay and Aveline's youngest son to London. He's seventy-five, living in a big house with one of his daughters and a half dozen grandchildren. Evie has walked past three times, wanting to go in but totally at a loss for something to say.

Desmond shakes his head. "No," he says. "I'm from—well, it's the future for you. 2012."

"Oh!" So far, Evie has only met visitors that predeceased her. It's sort of amazing to finally meet one from the future. Even if he does seem unaccountably nervous and unhappy. "What's the future like? Is it better than this time?"

"In some ways," Desmond says. "Worse in others. There are still assassins and templars."

"There always are," Evie says. She bites her lip, not sure what else to say. In the end, it's only remembering Ezio's visit that helps her figure out what to do. Very carefully, giving Desmond ample time to move away if he wants to, she edges closer and hugs him. He is stiff for a moment, then he shudders—and just as Evie can feel him beginning to relax, Jacob comes running over to interrupt.

"Look!" he cries, sprawling out on the grass next to Evie. "I found Desmond!"

Desmond has quickly jerked away from Evie at the sound of Jacob's arrival, but now he sends Evie a confused look. Indeed, Jacob is as completely unable to see Desmond as he had been of seeing Ezio when he'd walked in on that particular visit. Instead, he seems entirely focused on the squirming dog on his lap, an unattractive little thing that yaps loudly and keeps trying to jump up and lick Jacob's face.

"I'm sorry," Evie says, after a very long pause. "What do you mean, you 'found Desmond'?"

"Desmond," Jacob says, pointing to the dog. "Do you remember, I told you I met the Disraelis, and that the wife had this little dog she carries around in her handbag with her?"

"Well—yes," Evie says.

Jacob beams and holds up the dog so it can better reach his face—Evie rolls her eyes impatiently and waits for her brother to finish his explanation. Jacob has always had a soft spot for animals, even when they were children. Their father's refusal to let him have a pet had only encouraged this, and Evie distinctly remembers one summer where Jacob had managed to hide a cat, two frogs, and a bird in his bedroom before father found out.

"Jacob," she prompts, when Jacob shows no sign that he's going to stop playing with the dog anytime soon.

"What? Oh, right." He lowers the dog back into his lap. "Well, this is the dog—Desmond. He must have gotten away. Didn't you? _Didn't_ you, you bad dog? Yes you are a bad dog, Desmond, yes you are…" This is all said in a tone of absolute affection.

Evie assumes that none of this is meant for her, and when the animal rolls over, wagging its tail and presenting its belly to be scratched, Evie feels safe in guessing Jacob is done talking to her for the moment. She turns back to Desmond the person, and finds him—

Well, at first she thinks he's crying. He's sort of hunched over on the ground, shoulders shaking, eyes turned down. It's only when Evie really pays attention that she realizes he's _laughing_. It gets her laughing as well, and every time Jacob says something to Desmond the dog, the other two laugh harder—by the time Jacob finally looks up and notices his sister is apparently losing her mind, she and Desmond are both breathless with laughter.

"What's wrong with you?" Jacob demands, gathering the dog into his arms. He wiggles and squirms, then goes still as he starts intently licking the inside of Jacob's elbow.

"Nothing," Evie says, doing her best to gather the scattered shreds of her dignity. "I'm fine, I just—"

Behind her, the human Desmond makes a little woofing noise, and Evie collapses into laughter that leaves her unable to say another word for a solid five minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there is actually a dog called Desmond in Syndicate. Yes, it rides around in a handbag. I think it might be a corgi.
> 
> His database entry is worth reading if you want to get punched in the feels by Shaun. assassinscreed.wikia.com/wiki/Database:_Desmond


	61. Chapter 61

Evie feels naked without her weapons, foolish in her dress, defenseless with Starrick's arms around her. She can't get away from him, and she doesn't know where Jacob's gotten to. This is ridiculous—she shouldn't be trapped here, listening to Starrick whisper terrible promises into her ear in a quiet, pleasant voice. When they were planning to infiltrate this party, they should have found a way to smuggle in weapons, tools, something, _anything_.

Evie has never felt so powerless. And she has never felt so alone.

There is an inherent unfairness in the way a man and a woman dance together. The man leads, and the woman follows, and Evie cannot possibly break away from this pattern without raising a fuss and drawing attention toward herself that she _knows_ she and Jacob cannot afford today.

The shroud is here. It's here, somewhere, and if Starrick is here he must know about it as well. He cannot be allowed to reach it first, but Evie suspects he will be in as much trouble as she and Jacob if he hurts her here. She cannot harm him, and he cannot harm her—if either of them hurts the other, they will be arrested or at least forced to leave the party, and any chance of getting hold of the shroud.

But this means that Evie has no way of escaping his grasp just at the moment. She feels like a puppet on strings, caught by Starrick and unable to break away without violating the ridiculous rules of politeness and manners that dictate her every move while she's wearing this dress—when she's in her assassin robes, she can slip through crowds, run, jump, climb—and she is at home in her environment, she _knows_ that she can do all this without being seen. But in her skirts, she is nothing but a woman, as weak and foolish as any other in the eyes of society in general. She is so _visible_ , so _useless_ , a peacock on display…

And still, Starrick whispers those horrible things into her ear, smiling and smiling all the while.

It takes her a very long time to notice the man that does not belong at this party. He is large, wearing assassin's robes and carrying a small, distinctive axe on his belt—a tomahawk, Evie thinks.

No one else seems to be able to see him, a single point of stillness amid the whirling dancers and his eyes follow Evie as Starrick leads her around and around the room. She does not know him. Not his name, not where or when he comes from, nothing. But she identifies him at once (as soon as her brain starts working, in any case) as a visitor.

The man does not say anything. He does not do anything. Evie is not sure what he _can_ say or do to help—he is not really here, and she has no idea what a visitor can do in a situation like this. He simply watches, one hand always resting on his weapon.

And Evie starts to feel a little bit braver. A little less alone. Even without any idea who this man is, she knows that she is safe with him. He is a visitor, and he seems strong. Steady as a rock. Gradually, Evie finds her attention drifting from Starrick to this visitor. The templar's voice becomes no more than a distant drone in her ears, and she fixes her eyes on the man only she can see.

Her breathing steadies. Her confidence begins to return. She reminds herself that she is no _lady_ , helpless and pliant. She is an assassin. When Starrick begins his next round of whispered threats, Evie digs her nails into his skin suddenly and sharply enough to leave marks, and hisses her own right back at him.

Starrick lets her go at the end of the dance, and Evie just has time for a nod of thanks in her visitor's direction before he vanishes completely.

Right. Time to find the shroud.


	62. Chapter 62

No one but Evie ever knows the truth of what happens when she and Jacob face Starrick over the shroud. Jacob could describe Starrick's taunts, and the madness in the man's eyes—and he often does, in the following days (and weeks and months and, yes, _years_ —he has never been one to let go of a good story until he has run it absolutely into the ground). He'll describe in great detail the golden lines of light that seem to chase the twins around the room, burning straight through the skin and into the soul where they touch. Henry—dear, _dear_ Henry, who has always been there when he is truly needed—will tell (with a kind of quiet pride that Evie cannot help loving after two decades with Jacob) will talk about how he had arrived just in time to join the fight, distracting Starrick long enough to keep him from butchering the twins.

But only Evie can tell anyone about the other six assassins (and two templars) in the room. She _could tell_ , but she never does. Because she's never told anyone else that her visitors exist. They would never believe how much they are helping her on that all important day.

They are, though. They are all there, all eight of them, and Evie feels them in her bones, feels light and hope where before there had been only a desperate kind of fear of what Starrick might be able to do with the shroud. With them all around her, Evie is brave. She had not expected to see any of them again, she had genuinely believed that the silent visit of half an hour ago would be her last.

It is not.

Evie arrives in the place where the shroud is being held just in time to see the templar about to kill her brother. For a long moment, the fear of that _shatters_ her. She trembles and stops, so scared of losing Jacob that she cannot do anything to save him.

"Go."

The man from before reappears at her side, and takes in the scene all in an instant. He looks different now, significantly older, but Evie recognizes him at once. His word jolts her into action, and Evie runs toward Starrick and Jacob without any further prompting. It is only after she has forced them apart that she realizes she _still_ doesn't know his name.

Evie doesn't hear the next visitor arrive—but by now of course, she is distracted by Starrick trying to strangle her. She is still thinking of her nameless visitor, struggling and fighting because _he would want her to_ , when suddenly there is Altair. And in that moment, as he descends on Starrick like the personification of some vengeful spirit, face inscrutable beneath his hood, drawn blade glinting in the unnatural light of the shroud… in that moment, Evie understands why he is commonly considered the greatest of the assassins.

He lands on Starrick and manages one deep, solid cut before the shroud pulses and sends them both flying away. Altair lands on his feet, twisting skillfully in midair like a cat, but Evie skids along the rocky ground for several feet. Someone helps her to her feet—she doesn't know who it is until she's standing, but suddenly there is Ezio, his hand on her elbow, concern all across his face. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." Evie brushes herself off, ready to jump back in immediately, but Ezio shakes his head and grabs at her again.

"No," he says urgently. "Wait—I've heard of that thing."

"The shroud?"

Ezio nods. "Get it away from him, or he'll just keep healing."

They all turn to look back at Starrick—sure enough, Evie sees that the wound Altair had given him is already gone. "Shit," Evie mutters, because as she turns to look at Starrick she sees something else as well. Jacob has already taken off running back toward him, blade outstretched, just barely dodging the beams of piercing light that are everywhere by now.

"Jacob!" Evie shouts at the top of her lungs. "Jacob, cut the shroud! Cut the—" she stops shouting, because it's obviously doing no good. "He's not listening at all, is he?"

"That's brothers for you," Ezio says, and although his voice is cheerful he watches the next few moments of the fight as closely as Evie herself does—neither of them relaxes at all until Starrick has knocked Jacob back toward them. Jacob lands on his back, blinking up at Evie. "Ow."

She leans down and helps him to his feet. "The _shroud,_ Jacob," she says, speaking slowly and clearly, to make sure it gets through to him. "Cut it off and he'll stop healing."

"Yea?" he grumbles. "And how do you know that?"

Ezio is inches away from him, but Jacob doesn't—can't—see him.

"I just do," Evie says.

"Probably all that _research_ ," he mutters scathingly, and Evie sees him tense like he's about to run back toward Starrick. She shakes her head.

"My turn," she says, and takes off.

She doesn't get far before the light gets to her. They are coming thick and fast, jumping erratically so that Evie doesn't dare move for fear that another beam will come out of nowhere and hit her.

"Here, let me do it!"

Evie scarcely has a chance to turn before she has been forced from her own body. "What—" she turns back to the others, shocked, and is disconcerted at the way Jacob's gaze goes right through her. He's watching her body dash toward Starrick, and his face is white and drawn, _concerned_ for her in a way he has never let her see before. "What happened?" Evie finishes, a bit lamely, still watching her brother.

"That would be Edward," the unknown visitor grumbles. Evie turns on him.

"This isn't the best time," she says, "But what is your _name_?"

"Connor," he says.

"Connor." A name, at least. But then there is no more time for questions, because she is suddenly back in her own body, on the other side of the light, and Edward is in the place where she had been standing before. She can still hear him boasting loudly about how _"That wasn't even hard, the first civilization traps at the observatory were_ way _harder to climb around."_ Ridiculous man…

 In her distraction, she doesn't notice Starrick lunging at her, knocking her to the ground. She's just raising her blades to fight back, when a throwing knife comes hurling toward the pair of them, burying itself in Starrick's shoulder.

Evie is thrown back again, and the blade falls to the ground with a clatter, pushing out of Starrick's body as the wound heals itself. _Damn_ —she hadn't had a chance to get at the shroud before being forced away.

But Henry is here. _Henry_ had thrown the knife, he had come, and Evie beams at him—her smile fades just a fraction as he is thrown back as well by an especially violent pulse of light, cracking his head against the wall with a terrifying sound. But he sits up, rubbing at his head, and Evie is able to breathe again. So he is alive, at least. Everything will be alright.

"So did you work up the courage to speak to him about his flowers?"

Evie looks up and there is Aveline, holding out a hand to help her to her feet. Evie takes it at once, and only when she stands does she see Shay standing just behind his wife. They look so… natural together, that Evie is surprised she hadn't noticed they were incomplete before. But seeing them together… it's like seeing them whole for the first time.

"The flowers? Oh!" Henry's flowers, the ones she'd thrown out the window of the train when Aveline visited. "Yes," she admits. "We are to be married, actually."

"Are you?" Shay asks. He sounds pleased.

"It's a recent development," Evie admits. "But yes." Jacob shouts a curse as he is thrown away from Starrick and toward the rest of them. "Assuming we survive today, of course."

"You'll survive," a soft voice says at her elbow. Evie turns to look, and finds Desmond standing there with such a sweetly sincere attempt at a smile on his face that Evie has to smile back. He seems a good person, despite whatever inner demons he's struggling with. Evie hugs him briefly, glad that he seems to appreciate the gesture, but stops as Jacob crows in triumph.

"Evie!" he shouts at her. "I got the shroud off! Come help me!"

And so she comes, of course she does. The lights from before are gone completely, and there's a clear path to where her brother fights with Starrick. She takes off running as fast as she can, and behind her she hears the voice of the—of _her_ last remaining visitor.

"Why are we all here?" Haytham asks sharply.

"Because we just are," Ezio says.

"Unhelpful," Haytham snaps. "Normally when we're all together, someone is about to die."

"That won't happen," Desmond says, with enough (unexpected) certainty in his voice that it buoys Evie, sends her feet flying faster toward Starrick.

"I certainly hope not," Haytham grumbles. Then, in a louder voice, he calls after her—"Don't you dare die today, Evie Frye!"

She isn't planning to. No—just as she reaches Starrick, just as she leaps, Jacob lunges forward as well. They reach Starrick at just the same moment, and they are together, _together_ , when they kill him.

In the aftermath, as Starrick lies bleeding on the floor, as Henry walks over (rubbing his head and smiling sheepishly), as Evie pulls both of them close—

She turns back and sees that her visitors are gone. Evie doesn't think she'll be seeing them again.

"Evie?" Jacob asks, nudging her a little. "Evie, are you alright? You look much too sad for someone that just helped me kill a templar grandmaster." His voice snaps her back to herself, and she manages a grin.

"Helped _you_ kill?" she demands.

"Well, I did do most of the work."

"In what universe?"

"This one!"

But even if Evie never sees a single visitor again, she will always have her brother, and the man that she loves like no other. She wouldn't have either of them if not for her visitors, she'd have let Jacob slip away, and she'd never have noticed Henry's feelings for her.

"I'll race you both back to the train," Jacob says, a wicked grin on his face. "Winner gets to gloat, loser buys drinks tonight."

"Is your head alright?" Evie asks Henry, kissing him softly where he'd hit the wall.

"Better now," he tells her, and Evie turns back to her brother.

"You're on, then," she says, and takes off running. The boys dart after her, Jacob shouting that she'd cheated, Henry laughing. Evie runs and runs, and when she gets back outside she climbs, leaping and dashing over the rooftops. She is alive, she is _free_ —and she is happier than she could have imagined a few short months ago.

She wins the race, but Jacob still does all the gloating. And with a story like theirs, none of them has to buy drinks for themselves. Not that night, and not for a long time after.


	63. Chapter 63

There is water everywhere and Altair is drowning in it. He's drowning. _Drowning._ His brain is on fire with the sudden, horrible fear, and there is nothing he can do to stop himself from falling, gradually drifting down, down, _down_ into the clear blue water.

His lungs are empty, and his vision is going gradually darker and darker. His brain, starved of air and panicking, can't process anything he sees. His last, irrational thought is that at least he'll die somewhere… somewhere like this. Altair opens his eyes wide, drinking in the sight of the most horribly beautiful landscape he has ever seen.

Bright fish swim past him, tickling his fingers and toes, and Altair watches as they dart downward, toward the coral and the swaying seaweed of the like a forest on the ocean floor. Part of an old shipwreck juts proudly upward, reaching toward the surface…

And Altair manages to turn over, so that he gets one last glimpse of the sun far above him, just before he loses consciousness completely.

-//-

Edward has been swimming for some time before he starts to get really concerned about the strange weight pulling him downward. It's not a heavy weight, not really, but it feels like there's a rope tied between him and something deeper in the water. Finally, exasperated, Edward kicks off from the side of the ship he's been exploring, sending himself rocketing downward. The feeling of being tied to something below him is so convincing that even though he can see quite well there's nothing there, he wants to go see for himself that… that…

Oh _no_.

There's a little boy in the water, maybe eight years (maybe younger? Edward's not a father and he never wants to become one, he doesn't have to know things like this), still and pale, and Edward doesn't hesitate before redirecting himself toward him. He knows he's not always the kindest person in the world. Just this morning, for example, he'd met another of these so called _visitors_ , and again been lectured about wearing robes he 'doesn't deserve to wear.' Obviously, these people have yet to realize that all their moralizing lectures only make him more stubbornly determined to keep the stolen clothes. When he'd pointed this out to the visitor (an extremely attractive woman calling herself Aveline who had refused point blank to sleep with him), she'd said several rude things about his character and then vanished on him.

Still, whatever they all think, Edward is not enough of a bastard to let a child drown.

The boy is young and small and light, and it is no trouble at all to drag him to the surface. Edward pulls him onto the ship's deck and looks up at the faces of his crew—he sees nothing out of the ordinary there. No concern for the child like a drowned rat he has dragged to the surface, no confusion, nothing. They cannot see him, which either means that Edward is crazy (and he's not—he's not even drunk for once, because he's not _quite_ stupid enough to go diving unless he's sober), or the boy is invisible.

Is he a visitor?

"You better not complain about my clothes when I save you," Edward grumbles at the boy, and then he shouts for his crew to back off and give him space.

"Captain?" Ade asks, startled. "Something wrong?"

"I just need some room," Edward says, and bends over to tend to the boy as Ade starts ordering the rest of the men back to their duties. This is not the first time Edward has seen someone nearly drown at sea, and it's not the first time he's had to save one of them. It's really kind of amazing how many people end up aboard ship without ever learning to swim.

It takes the boy a long time to jerk back to life, turning onto his side and vomiting up seawater. Edward droops back, satisfied, and watches the vomiting in silence. When the boy turns to dry heaving, Edward leans forward a bit and pats him a time or two on the back. "There you go," he says cheerfully. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

The boy looks over his shoulder, sees Edward, sees the ship's railing behind him, and the apparently endless sea beyond that—and collapses immediately into a terrified little ball, scurrying back toward the center of the ship and _shaking_ , trembling like a leaf in a hurricane.

"Hey!" Edward calls. "Hey, it's alright. You didn't drown, did you?" The boy doesn't answer. "You're welcome, by the way!"

He responds by bursting into sobs, and then he removes any doubt of his being a visitor by disappearing. Edward stares at the spot where he had been for a moment, then snorts and gets to his feet. "Ungrateful brat," he mutters, and wanders off to find some rum.

-//-

The ship goes away and Altair is left dripping and terrified just outside the ring where the youngest novices are practicing. He's just where he had been before… before suddenly drowning. And he can hear the taunts and the teasing starting up already, the boys that are supposed to be his friends and future brothers laughing at him as he trembles with the memory of what had just happened. None of them are supposed to be here today, they're still too little to train—but they often come to watch, and to talk excitedly about when it will be their turn to be taught to fight. Today, apparently, Altair is to be their entertainment instead.

He tries to care, because the humiliation is awful but it is better than the fear. The fear of—

Of water. All around him, pressing down on him, filling his lungs, stealing his air—Altair can still close his eyes and remember the crushing, terrifying sensation perfectly. He has never been so scared in all his life. His throat still stings from where he'd thrown up, his belly aches, and he feels like he will never, _ever_ be able to get enough air. The crying doesn't help any—it's making the teasing worse, and by now he's sobbing so hard that he can't get a full breath of air in, it feels like he's drowning _again_. It's not fair, he's on dry land—the paralyzing horror of the ocean as it creeps into his body shouldn't be able to touch him here.

In the end, one of the older novices is called over to escort Altair into the keep, where his father comes and sits with him until finally he calms.

"You were supposed to stay home today," Umar says softly, when Altair has cried himself out and the shaking has finally stopped. "What happened?"

"I don't know, father," Altair admits. "I s—I saw something. It scared me."

Umar leans forward and tilts Altair's chin upward to look into his eyes. The familiar gesture calms Altair a little, as does the familiar smell of his father in his nose. A dry, dusty kind of smell, with a little bit of sweat from running around all day. Altair is still too young to be _really_ sure of what it is assassins do, beyond fighting and climbing and going on long, exciting missions (sometimes for weeks at a time—but that's alright, really it is, because Altair knows his father will always come back to him, tired and dirty but bursting with new stories to tell). So he doesn't know what his father does, but he knows he must be the very best at it.

"Was it your other sight again?" Umar asks softly.

Altair shakes his head, and can't resist the temptation of switching to eagle vision for a moment, just to see the reassuring blue of his father shining in front of him. It's not just the color, as Altair has tried to explain. But he just doesn't have the words to describe how that blue means ally, it means that this is a person he can trust and rely on absolutely. It's just something he knows, deep down in his bones.

He lets the eagle vision fade. It is his father that had named it that, when a three-year-old Altair had come crying to him in the night because he couldn't make the colors stop and he didn't understand what they meant. _You are my little eagle, Altair,_ he'd said at the time. _You are special and different. This just proves it._

"I was somewhere else," he tries to explain. In… in the ocean. I almost drowned but a strange man saved me." Only... had he really been all that strange? He hadn't exactly been nice when he saved Altair's life, but he'd been almost as blue as Altair's father in eagle vision when Altair checked. _No one_ is that bright, no one but Umar.

"Well at least that explains how you came to be so wet," his father teases gently, running his fingers through Altair's still dripping hair. "Are you alright?"

Altair nods, grateful at least that Umar had not doubted him. "I'm fine, father," he says, but it is a lie—he knows he will never again be able to face water without fear.

Maybe the strange man will be there to save him again if anything bad happens. That would be okay.

-//-

Of course, by the time Altair has grown up and met Edward again, he has completely forgotten his face. He sees only the stolen robes, the cocky grin, the hidden blades he should not be wearing.

But he  _never_ forgets the terrifying, paralyzing feel of water in his lungs as he drowns.


	64. Chapter 64

Ezio watches Haytham working on the other side of the room. The two of them have agreed to a truce, yes, but Ezio by no means trusts Haytham to keep to it. Not when he's a templar. And especially not when he'd lied about it to Ezio, letting him think they were brothers. Ezio had quite liked the idea, for all that the other man has never been anything but stiff and distant. He'd thought he could trust Haytham, he'd thought he could trust all his visitors.

Oops.

So now they mostly sit in silence, ignoring one another, and it's the most horribly awkward thing. His other visitors are more interesting than this, but Ezio has actually started to dread seeing Haytham. It's so horribly dull…

He looks up at the sound of a knock on the room's door, only mildly interested, and is surprised to see Shay. What's Shay doing here? Ezio _knows_ Shay is an assassin, because after finding out about Haytham being a templar and Edward being nothing but a fake, Ezio had gotten really worried—after all, Connor had said that Edward and Shay were both complicated cases. But the next time he'd visited Shay, Shay had been quite surprised to hear that his loyalty was apparently complicated—he'd promised Ezio that _of course_ he was an assassin, and that he had no plans of leaving anytime soon.

Then he'd gotten distracted, because the _Morrigan_ was about to dock at Lisbon, and apparently Shay needed to pay attention to the ship. Ezio's visit had ended before they were able to talk again.

He rises slowly, brow furrowed. Doesn't Shay know Haytham is a templar? What is he doing here? "Shay?" Ezio asks, and he's almost surprised that Shay can hear him—the other man looks up, and nods companionably.

"Ezio," he says, and although his voice is perfectly friendly, he _can't_ be a friend because he's wearing a templar's robes. As Ezio gapes at him in utter incomprehension, Shay turns back to Haytham. "Sir," he says (and Ezio winces at the show of respect he's giving to Haytham of all people, a templar and a pretender). "There's a messenger waiting downstairs, and he has news of—"

"Shay!" Ezio says again, louder. "What are you doing?"

Shay looks at him, confused, then back at Haytham. "Am I doing something I'm not supposed to be doing?" he asks.

"Wait for me downstairs," Haytham tells Shay.

Shay almost looks like he's going to argue, but in the end he goes back out of the room without so much as questioning Haytham's order. Ezio is almost twitching with outrage on Shay's behalf by now, and as soon as he's alone again with Haytham, he crosses the room and stands a foot or two away from the man. For a moment they just stand in silence, as Ezio struggles with the fact that he's standing next to a templar grandmaster, a man he'd once thought was a _friend_ , a visitor, someone he'll never be able to get away from.

Unless—unless Ezio kills him here and now. And why not? Haytham had lied to him. And he'd _chosen_ his side. If he didn't want to be killed by an assassin, he shouldn't have become a templar. That's just how these things work.

"We do have a truce," Haytham reminds Ezio.

"And when we made that truce, I told you that I would step in if you harmed any of our other visitors."

"Which I have not," Haytham says, still absolutely calm.

Ezio gestures expansively toward the door where Shay has gone. His anger and frustration show in the sharp jab of his finger, and the way his voice goes loud and full without his permission. "What about Shay?" he demands. "What have you done to Shay?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"Then why is he taking orders from you?" Ezio demands. "He's an assassin!"

"Ezio!"

Haytham reaches forward and puts his hands on Ezio's shoulders, almost like he's trying to calm him. Ezio doesn't even think, just brings his blade up to threaten Haytham, holding the edge against the templar's neck. "Don't _touch_ me," he says, shaking with confusion and fear and disgust. "You and I are _not_ friends. You lied to me, deliberately. And you took Shay." He's not entirely sure if he wats to kill Haytham, just at this moment. In some ways, it would make everything easier. But something in him is still strangely reluctant. Haytham is a visitor, and that's supposed to mean something. Isn't it?

"Shay is his own person," Haytham says. It infuriates Ezio, how Haytham refuses to get upset, but the older man does at least take his hands off Ezio. Ezio, in turn, relaxes his blade. Just a bit. "This must be very early for you."

"What do you mean?"

"You haven't been visiting for long," Haytham says. "Correct?"

"I guess not," Ezio mutters. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Shay is a complicated case," Haytham says, and Ezio sighs. Connor had said the same thing a few days ago. "Things have changed, but in the end, everything he's done was by his own choice."

Ezio frowns. First Haytham, then Edward—now Shay, whatever's going on with him. Will there be any assassins left among the visitors by the end?

(Altair, he reminds himself. Of course, he will always be able to count on Altair being an assassin)

And then he thinks of Haytham's hands on his shoulders, how… how _compassionate_ that gesture had been, and a sick kind of doubt races through him. "This _isn't_ early for you, though," he says. "You've been visiting for a long time."

"Yes," Haytham agrees.

"If I ask you a question—" Ezio tries to sound as fierce as possible, which isn't difficult because even though he's suddenly afraid, he's still angry. "Will you answer honestly?"

Haytham arches an eyebrow. "That would depend on the question, of course," he says.

"You are a templar," Ezio says.

"I certainly hope that's not your question," Haytham says. "It would be rather a waste to ask something you clearly already know."

"It's not," Ezio says. "But you're a templar, and Shay is a templar, and Edward is—I don't know what Edward is."

"Edward is Edward," Haytham grumbles, sounding slightly exasperated.

"And what am I?"

There's a moment of silence. Haytham seems genuinely confused by the question. "You're an assassin," he says. "Of course."

"Always?" Ezio asks.

"For as long as I have known you, at least," Haytham says.

Ezio lets out a breath and steps back.

"Were you really concerned about that?" Haytham asks.

"No," Ezio says. "No, of course not." He can't look straight at Haytham. "Perhaps… just for a moment. I don't know what anyone is anymore."

(Apart from Altair)

"You're an assassin," Haytham says dismissively.

"But—"

"Listen, Ezio," Haytham says again. "You are an assassin. You will always be an assassin. You are rather tiresomely fixed on the concept, to be honest."

His visit ends, and Ezio finds himself back at home, in the safety of his own bed. He lies there, staring up at the ceiling. His visit has left him sleepless, mind working furiously, trying to rebuild his vision of the world and his visitors that had shattered when he first learned Haytham was a templar and not a friend.

Altair. Start there, because Altair is not just _an_ assassin, he is _the_ assassin. He's the one that figured it all out, not the man that founded the brotherhood but the one that started it on the path that got it to where it is today. So Ezio starts with that, and builds up from there. Next, himself. Because even Haytham says he's an assassin, and that's something Ezio can be fairly certain of. So that's the next block he lays down in his mind. After that, Haytham. Because as much as it pains him to admit it, Ezio is certain now that Haytham is a templar. So like it or not, that is another certainty.

Ezio closes his eyes and nods to himself. Yes. He knows where three of them lie now, at least. He'll figure out the others soon enough. Apparently, he still has many years of visiting left ahead of him to figure it all out.


	65. Chapter 65

Desmond can't believe he's going to do this. He really, really can't believe he's going to do this.

"Hey, Rebecca." His voice cracks and jerks into a higher pitch, and Desmond can picture the look of concern on her face even before she turns and he actually sees it.

"What's wrong?"

"I need to use the animus today."

No, no, no, no, _no, no, no, no NO, NO, NO—_

"Why?" Rebecca asks. "It's supposed to be your day off, isn't it? I thought you were looking forward to it."

It's his first day off in the past two weeks—of course he's been looking forward to it. Unfortunately, there's something he sort of wants to know. "I sort of want to check something out," he says. "But it's not directly related to the key and Connor, so I know dad's not going to be okay with it."

"I'm not sure I'm okay with it either," Rebecca says. "This isn't like you, Des."

He half shrugs, miserable already by the thought of it. "Look," he says. "There's something I really need to know, and I have to be in the animus to find it out. I'm tearing my mind to pieces to find this stuff for dad, why can't I just find out this one thing for myself?"

Rebeca gives him a long, considering look, and Desmond tries to look as pathetic as possible. He knows she feels sorry for him. Normally, her pity makes him feel even worse about going crazy, but apparently he's fallen far enough that he'll actually use that to get what he wants.

"What are you looking for?" she says at last. And Desmond had known that she would ask that question, of course she would, but he hasn't been able to come up with a convincing enough lie yet. So, on a whim, he decides to try the truth.

"I'm bleeding," Desmond says.

"I know," Rebecca admits. "We hear you talking to yourself sometimes."

Desmond looks away. "Yea, well I—I'm not just bleeding people I've been in the animus anymore. There's this other guy, Edward. Haytham's father, I think. And I just want to know if I'm making him up, or if he really existed the way he does in my head. You know, am I only kind of crazy, or just batshit insane?" He tries to laugh, but chokes on the attempt. "So I thought that seeing Edward in the animus would help me figure that out." Of course, seeing Shay and Aveline might help too, but Desmond doesn't want to tell Rebecca he's crazy enough to hallucinate multiple people he hasn't been in the animus. He'd thought long and hard about which one of them he wants to see in the animus, and had eventually settled on Edward.

He tries to tell himself that he'd picked Edward because he's one hundred percent sure they're related, through Haytham and Connor, and it should be easy for Rebecca to find him. But the sad truth is that he wants to know if being Edward in the animus feels the same as being held by him at night. It's been several days since Edward last visited, and Desmond's had a hard time falling asleep. He misses that feeling of Edward's arms around him (and isn't that pathetic?)

"Are you hoping you made him up?" Rebecca asks. "Or that your hallucinations are accurate?"

"I don't know," Desmond admits. "Which one makes me less crazy?" He shrugs and stares at the ground. "I just want to know for sure, one way or the other."

"I don't know…"

"Please, Rebecca," Desmond says. Begs. "Please."

She nods, and points him toward the animus. "Just don't tell your dad," she says, as if he's in the habit of sitting around with his father and talking over his day.

The animus takes a little bit longer than usual to start up—Rebecca whispers to herself as she works, and once or twice Desmond hears a worrying burst of cursing. Finally, she announces that they're good to go, and Desmond closes his eyes—

And opens Edward's.

Desmond has been sailing before. In his own skin during visits, as Haytham aboard the _Providence_ , as Connor when he captains the _Aquila_. Desmond has even been here before, on the _Jackdaw_. But he's never seen it quite like this before, not even when he borrows Edward's body.

The _Jackdaw_ is more than a ship to Edward. She is Edward's home, family, and freedom all rolled up into one beautiful whole. Edward _loves_ this ship, everything she is and everything she represents. Desmond tightens Edward's hand around the ship's wheel, staring around in awe as tears prick in the corners of his eyes. How has he never been able to see this before? How—

He stares so long that the _Jackdaw_ runs aground and Desmond desynchs. In the animus's loading screen, Desmond paces anxiously around in his ancestor's skin, trying to get the feel of Edward. It's the first time he's been someone in the animus after meeting them as a visitor, and Desmond is shocked at how easy it is to fall into Edward's skin. There's a wild freedom in his chest that he knows isn't coming from him, a desperate need to _go_ and _do_ and _see_ —he wants to run, jump, climb, fight. Laugh until his belly hurts, drink until he passes out. For the first time, Desmond can understand how Edward can say that sinking a ship for the goods it carries is _fun_. It's not necessarily the death, it's just the _doing_ , this constant, urgent itch to keep moving forward, doing anything, finding out what happens if he just dares to try.

When the _Jackdaw_ loads around him again, Desmond is already slipping. Edward's mind crashes over him like a wave, and he is strong and determined and impossible to ignore, everything Desmond is not, and Edward is washing Desmond away...

There's a ship sailing far too near the _Jackdaw_ , a fat, slow merchant that makes something in Desmond sing with the need to go after her. For the thrill of the chase, for the fun of the fight, for the victory of taking everything she has. He fights it only for only a moment, because… because this is the animus and why should it matter, and anyway _the ship is going to get away if he waits any longer, it will be too late and he's never been one for letting opportunity pass him by._

_"Ade!" Edward calls. "Full sails!"_

_And off they go, racing across the open sea—and Edward feels absolutely, truly alive._

-//-

In the aftermath, when Rebecca has ended the animus session Desmond crawls off to his corner of the temple to recover the shards of himself that Edward has so effectively shattered. He's still shaking and trembling, fighting Edward's grip on his mind, when she comes and sits down cross legged in front of him.

"So?" Rebecca asks. "Was he the same in the animusas he was when you started having hallucinations of him?"

Desmond nods. "Yea," he says. "Exactly the same. He's—he's Edward. No mistaking him for anyone else."

"And… is that good, or bad?"

"I still don't know," Desmond says. That's like asking if Edward is good or bad—sometimes he's kind, holding Desmond when he cries, joking, making a fool of himself. And sometimes he's cruel, chasing ships, stealing and killing and destroying because it's _fun_. There is no simple way of summing him up, he's a force of nature.

"Well… was it worth it, at least?" Rebecca asks. "Finding out about him?"

"Yes," Desmond says. "I don't know what to make of it, but at least I'm sure what I'm seeing is right now."

"Good." She pats him on the knee, and tries to smile. "Get some sleep, Desmond."

"I'll try."

But he doesn't sleep, he can't. Rebecca's question has raised new worries in his mind— _was_ it worth it, really? Every time he opens his mouth from now on, he'll have to guard against Edward's accent spilling out of him, along with Altair's Arabic and Ezio's Italian, Haytham's stiff, proper English and Connor's quiet, almost surly version of the same language. It's one thing to hallucinate his visitors, quite another to forget the difference between them and him.

Sometime after midnight, Desmond's worries about being Edward are starting to shift into worries about the next day's animus session (he's scheduled for sixteen hours, from six in the morning until ten at night—lighter than most days but still so much, so _heavy_ ). And that's when Edward himself arrives. He looks exhausted, doesn't even say anything before sprawling out on the ground next to Desmond and tugging him close to wrap his arms around him.

"Hey," Desmond mutters, burying his face gratefully in Edward's shoulder. He doesn't smell of rum, so this must be an older Edward, one from after Haytham's birth. "Guess what, you're real."

"Knew that already," Edward mumbles. Then he opens his eyes and nudges Desmond. "So does that mean you finally believe in visitors?"

"You're still a hallucination," Desmond assures him quickly. "But I mean—historically, you were a real person.”

"Well if you were worried about that, you could have just asked Haytham."

"Haytham's also a hallucination," Desmond reminds him patiently.

Edward responds with a grunting sort of noise, then says "Go to _sleep_ , Desmond."

"Okay," Desmond whispers, and with Edward holding him tight he drops off in seconds.


	66. Chapter 66

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er... Merry sort-of/late Christmas, salanaland. I tried to write you some nice Kiddway but Desmond jumped in and got feels all over everything.

There is something special about Edward Kenway.

It's the only explanation Mary can see for why he, of all people, has some magic connection to the people he calls _visitors_. There simply has to be something special about him, because he can't have earned this on his own. No way, not _him_.

"Oi, Kidd." Edward kicks at her under the tavern's rough wooden table. "What has you so lost in thought?"

"Thinking terrible things about you, Kenway," she says, and manages to hide her smile at Edward's answering sulk by raising her mug and taking a drink. He can be such a child sometimes, and yet at other times…

"You don't _only_ think terrible things about me, do you?" he asks. "You think nice things sometimes, don't you?"

Mary raises here eyebrows. Jesus, but she hadn't realized he'd gotten that deep into his cups already. Still, she doesn't mind reassuring him occasionally, and… he is a friend. Sometimes Mary isn't sure _why_ they're friends, especially when he runs off on some insane new scheme or says something that reminds her just how little he cares about helping people other than himself. But they are.

"Sure I do," she says, which makes Edward look just a bit more cheerful.

"Like what?" he asks.

She smirks at him and doesn't answer, no matter how much he pleads with her. By the end they're both laughing, and Edward has just promised Mary his first born child if she'll just pay him a compliment.

"First born child?" Mary laughs. "No. I couldn't do that."

"But I'm offering!"

Mary smirks at him and doesn't answer. She's thinking of the visitor Edward calls Hat Man, the one that had told Mary his name was Haytham Kenway—and then had whispered that he wished she was his mother. Those are possibly the strangest words she's ever heard coming out of Edward's mouth (not that they haven't had stiff competition), and they've stuck with her.

So she's not the mother of Edward's son.

It really shouldn't bother her. She's certainly never wanted to be a mother. But hearing someone say whisper to her that they wished she _had_ been, it makes things… just a little different. It's a good compliment, if nothing else. And it makes her think.

"Kidd, you can't—" he breaks off for a second, shaking his head. He looks very briefly puzzled, but then shrugs and goes on. "You can't just refuse me point blank like that! You'll hurt my feelings."

This strikes Mary as funny, and she laughs, leaning over the table to give Edward a good solid whack. Only Edward grabs her wrist to stop her, and for a long frozen second the two of them just look at each other. With Mary leaning over like this, and Edward tilted forward toward her, their faces are only a few inches apart. And suddenly Mary thinks how funny it is that she keeps kissing Edward's visitors in his body. The first time it happened, it had been a sort of whim, and then when she saw that it bothered Edward, she'd kept doing it to tease him. But somehow, she has never quite managed to get a kiss out of Edward, and it's just sort of funny.

And maybe Edward is thinking the same thing, because suddenly he laughs and closes the distance between them. His mouth on hers is utterly familiar and yet this time, as with every other time she's kissed this mouth, Mary notices the differences. It's amazing, all the different ways a mouth can be used.

Ezio had been well practiced and confident, even in someone else's body. It's very obvious that he's done this before, probably dozens of times. That had probably been the most enjoyable kiss she's had with Edward's body—both she and Ezio had known what they were doing, and it had been downright fun until Edward came back (the look on his face had been a different kind of fun altogether).

Altair had been firm, but cautious. Used to having his own way, maybe, but uncertain of exactly what he wants when he kisses a woman. Mary had been more than happy to try a few different things until he started to get really interested—hopefully he'd learned a thing or two in the process.

Then there had been Evie, which had been nice in its own way—a bit like kissing Anne, if anything. Sort of enthusiastically curious. And her reaction when they'd finished, her unexpected, blushing embarrassment, had been surprisingly sweet.

Edward is nothing like any of them. This is his mouth on hers, his hand reaching up to cup her face, his soft, moaning noise of want… his kiss, like everything about him, is a mess of contradictions. It's simultaneously horribly chaotic and somehow gentle—Edward's lips and tongue clash against hers, fighting her like they're ships at sea in the middle of a raging battle, but his hand against her is soft and warm. He seems to be trying to _win_ more than seduce, and trying to… to connect with her more than to win.

In the end, Mary gives up trying to understand him, and loses herself in the kiss. It seems the only rational choice she can make. And for all that it shouldn't be a good kiss, Mary can't make herself let Edward go.

And then suddenly he changes. Edward jerks sideways, half trying to continue the kiss and half turning away—he seems wildly confused, jumpy and alarmed. His hand tightens on her face, almost painfully, and his breathing quickens.

"Edward—" she breaks away from him, just a bit, leans her forehead against his and staying there when it seems to comfort him. "What's wrong?"

"I don't—" he groans. " _Something's_ wrong."

Well, obviously. "What?"

He squeezes his eyes closed, apparently concentrating hard. After a little while, he says, "I don't think I'm Edward."

If this had been anyone else, someone without visitors that could take over his body at any given moment, Mary would have called him crazy. But… it's possible this isn't Edward. "So who are you?"

Another long, horrible pause. Then he sighs, deflating against her. "Desmond."

Oh. Well, of course—she should have guessed it was the crazy one. "Desmond," Mary says, and he nods tentatively. "Do you think you can let Edward have his body back?"

"I—yea, I'm sorry, I really am. I shouldn't have—" Midsentence, he stops talking and jerks away from her, running toward what looks for all the world like a perfectly blank spot on the floor. "Desmond!" he says, and his voice is tight with something like worry and something like anger, and Mary spares a moment to be grateful that she doesn't have any visitors herself.

Edward drops to his knees, and hugs himself firmly. "Desmond, I was _shouting_ at you, why didn't you say anything?" He pauses just a heartbeat, then shakes his head sadly and hugs tighter. After a moment or two, he lets go and stands, leaning slightly to one side like there's someone leaning against him. "Sorry, Mary," he says softly as he (and, presumably, Desmond) walk past her. "Desmond's bleeding and I'm just going to take him out for some air."

Mary nods, and then as soon as he's made it outside, gets up and follows him out. She stands in the doorway for a long, long time, watching Edward's half of his conversation with Desmond. Not that there's much to it—Desmond must be doing most of the talking, because Edward mostly confines himself to reassuring platitudes and sympathetic nodding.

She never really sees him like this. With someone he obviously cares about, comforting them, acting like a decent human being. For all the effort Edward puts into acting like an arsehole, it's nice to know that's not who he is all the way through. When Edward finally sighs and leans back against the building and sighs, rubbing tiredly at his face, Mary comes out and joins him.

"What happened?" Mary asks.

"Well, you know Desmond," Edward says. "I mean—you know about him. He has problems remembering who he is sometimes. And today he thought he was me."

"Well he didn't seem too bad," Mary says, trying to comfort him. "I mean, he was confused, but he obviously knew something was wrong right away. He stopped kissing me and sort of…" she makes a jittery, uncertain movement with her hand, not sure how to describe Desmond's reaction.

Edward gives her a funny look. "No he didn't," he says. "He showed up when you were refusing to have my first born son, and just snatched my body right away."

"Oh!" Mary frowns, trying to think back—there had been a moment, hadn't there, just a second when Edward had seemed… off… during that part of the conversation? "He was in your body for that long?"

"I kept shouting and shouting but he wouldn't even look at me," Edward says miserably. "He was so upset when he finally snapped out of it." He looks sideways and frowns at Mary. "It's not his fault, you know. He's trying to do something good, and it's taking everything from him. _Christ_." He shakes his head and looks away. "That's why it's better not to bother. Just look out for yourself, don't bother with other people—that's why all you assassins are insane. Fighting for people that don't even care. You'll only get hurt."

"You don't believe that," Mary says dismissively.

"I do!"

"Just look out for yourself?" she repeats. "No. If you believed that, you wouldn't have sat out here for half an hour trying to make Desmond feel better."

"Well—I mean…" he's plainly struggling for some kind of defense. "Technically, he thought he _was_ me. So I sort of was looking out for myself."

"Bull," Mary scoffs. "You're capable of being a good man, Edward Kenway. Even if you hate the idea."

He scowls at this, then brightens. "Hey, Kidd," he says, and the impish grin on his face tells Mary very plainly that he's done with this subject. "When Desmond thought he was me kissing you, did you think you were kissing me?"

"What?"

"Did you _want_ to kiss me?"

"Course not. If Desmond was kissing the way you would have kissed me, you're terrible at it." But she can still feel his lips on hers. She _does_ want to feel them again. But how can she ever, ever admit it?

"Mary!"

"Hush," she scolds.

"I wouldn't mind."

And he looks so hopeful that Mary leans forward and kisses him, briefly, on the side of his forehead. "There you go," she says as he mopes. "And that's only because it's silly that I've kissed so many of your visitors, but haven't kissed you."

"Mary…"

"I need to go," she tells him, stepping quickly away. When she's almost out of earshot she stops, feeling that something else needs to be said. "Kenway!" she shouts at him.

"What?" he calls back.

For a long moment she hesitates. She could tell Edward right now that she likes him, and she's almost sure he'd be up for anything she wants to do. But what about tomorrow, or the day after that? Will she still care for him the next time he puts the brotherhood in danger, the next time he almost kills himself on some stupid plan? When the memory of his careful tending of Desmond isn't as strong as whatever annoying thing he decides to do next, will she regret saying something?

"What?" Edward shouts again, louder this time.

"Stop using my name!" she blurts, and turns away before she can change her mind. She's not ready--not right now. Maybe someday she'll change her mind, come back to him. If he grows up a little, stops pretending he doesn't care about anyone but himself.

After all, there is something special about Edward Kenway.


	67. Chapter 67

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reccomended reading: Shay's death, in  
> [this chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4817489/chapters/11514262) and Haytham's death in [this chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4572612/chapters/11632936).

So he's going to die now. It doesn't hurt as much as Edward had expected, but…

His visitors aren't here with him. He's dying, _they're supposed to be here_. Edward tries to take a breath, tries to calm himself, but his breath catches, his lungs aren't working, and he thinks distantly that of course they aren't, there's a sword through one. His brain is on fire with fear and panic, and his vision is starting to go black around the edges. This is it. Jenny had been right, apparently. This is the night before Haytham's tenth birthday, and this is the night he dies.

So what comes after this? He's always sort of tried not to think about it, but he has… minutes left. Maybe seconds. Probably not the best time to be wondering if there's going to be anything after this. But he's so _scared_. He can't stop…

"Daddy!"

No.

The only thing that could possibly make dying worse is having Haytham here to see it. Edward tries to say something, tries to tell him to go away, close his eyes, _something_ , just so he won't have to see. But there's still no breath in his lungs, and he can't manage a word. A sudden spike of anger pulses through him, but the anger dissolves quickly into fear, and then to something different. Something deep, something infinitely _sad_ that Edward’s dying mind struggles and fails to catch hold of. It’s part loneliness, a sort of desperate longing for the people that are so incredibly important to him. Part confusion, because… because Edward had been there for them, when they died. Why won’t they come? He wants… he needs someone to hold his hand as he dies. Someone to promise (lie) that it will all be okay. Someone to hold Haytham, cover his eyes so he won’t have to see--

No one is there, and something in Edward can’t stop hurting for them. They had all been so dismissive of him in the beginning, because he wasn’t a _real_ assassin, because he wore stolen robes and fought for himself. But… but he’s better than that now. They’re friends, and he’d thought… he’d thought…

Did he do something wrong? Is he still not good enough for them? Why... why don’t they come…?

The world is dissolving around him, going blurry and unreal. The only solid thing left is Haytham, the sight of his tear streaked face burning itself onto Edward's dimming eyes, the sound of his breathy, whimpering cry drilling through him, deep into his heart where it hurts the most.

At least he knows Haytham will survive tonight. Edward can't imagine how much worse he would have felt if he didn't know what would happen to his son. And he feels pretty fucking terrible, so that's really saying something.

He trembles, but manages to move his arms just a bit. Thinking is hard. His brain isn't working so great. But there's one thought in his head still, just one—he needs to hold Haytham again one more time before he goes. Because Haytham is going to be _so_ alone for _so_ long, and there are so many things Edward should have told him already, so many more times he should have said _I love you_. He wishes he'd explained visitors to Haytham, wishes he'd sat his son down and explained that both of them are tied to each other, and to six other insane, wonderful people. He should have promised Haytham that he'll never truly have to be alone.

But he'd put the conversation off, because he doesn't know how to start, and because he'd been sort of worried it might break the timeline. Neither of those things seem as important as reassuring his son right now, though. Of course, now it's too late.

Edward is still reaching for Haytham, feebly trying to hold him, when a hand reaches down and pulls the sword from his chest.

And that's it. The sword goes and Edward goes with it. Whatever it is that makes Edward really _Edward_ , that intangible, invisible part of him that leaves his body and goes visiting, is ripped from his body and sent flying into the abyss. His… his soul, maybe (although even at this moment, he's not entirely sure he believes in the concept). For a single, timeless moment, Edward is nothing.

Until suddenly he is not. He is light, or something like it, glowing and insubstantial, standing in a world of washed out gray. This is the room he'd died in, but it looks different now. Sort of wispy and floaty and drifting away. The only solid things in Edward's whole world are his crumpled, bleeding body on the floor (he stares at it for a moment in fascination) and Haytham nearby.

Haytham.

Edward drops to his knees, half falling toward his son, reaching _again_ toward him with arms outstretched. There is a moment when Haytham seems to see him, when his eyes (unfocused in grief or pain or something else) seem to widen in recognition, and his arms (wet with what is probably blood) reach trembling up toward his father—

He can't hold himself together a moment longer, and he bursts into a million billion flecks of light, and he can feel himself being pulled away, away, away… And Edward has no eyes, but he is crying, he has no arms but he is still reaching, no heart but somehow it still aches with loss.

It is impossible to say how long he floats in this nothingness, but eventually he feels himself beginning to reform into a solid something. He's lying down, and the thing he’s lying on is soft, and Edward's still reaching arms find someone warm and familiar to hold. Edward's limbs are heavy with exhaustion (dying, apparently, takes a lot out of a person). His eyelids are stuck together, and he can't gather enough energy to open them.

So Edward just holds his bedmate tighter, because he needs to hold someone, and lets himself sleep. Just for a little while. He'll worry about all the rest when he wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two big things happening tomorrow!
> 
> First: 2016
> 
> Second: Waaaaaaay back in October, Riona, salanaland, and I started working on a TOP SECRET SUPER AWESOME visitorverse project. Three months and many thousands of words later, it's finally finished. So that will be starting up ~~tomorrow~~ [today!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5599084/chapters/12900940), and this chapter sort of serves as the prologue (we start with what happens to Edward after he dies, and move on from there). We're really excited about it, and hopefully you guys will be too!
> 
> (Also, obviously the second thing is _far_ more important than the first thing. Clearly.)


	68. Chapter 68

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember [Desmond's lion](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4817489/chapters/11394640)? I'm bringing it back.

Haytham doesn't recognize Desmond.

It's as simple as that. He knows that he must be here to visit Desmond, just from the level of technology and the height of the buildings around him. But there's a whole crowd of people here, and Haytham can't pick out which one is Desmond. It makes him feel oddly concerned, an unexpectedly protective feeling coiling its way through his gut. Something must be wrong (because something is _always_ wrong in Desmond's life), and Haytham can't even find him.

He looks around, trying to figure out where he is. It's a strange place, crowded and full of cages with animals in them. Haytham waits a moment, watches as people move around the walkways and look at the animals in their pens. Signs here and there proclaim that this is a zoo, but that tells Haytham absolutely nothing.

Eventually, at an absolute loss for anything else to do, he starts walking around, mapping out the space where he is able to go. From many previous visits, he has a pretty good idea how far he can get from the person he's visiting, and from there he's able to guess where Desmond has to be. He edges closer to the center of his little circle and eases onto a bench.

An eagle screeches from a cage nearby (and Haytham spares a moment of anger directed at whoever had confined it to a space too small to fly) and reminds Haytham that of course he has a better way of looking for Desmond. He switches to his other sight, and blinks in surprise when he spots Desmond at once, glowing that particular bright blue that visitors always have, and standing not more than ten feet in front of him.

Haytham blinks away his eagle vision to get a better look at Desmond. He sees a young man, late teens or early twenties, dressed in clean, new clothes—Haytham thinks all clothing in this time looks ridiculous, so he can't say if they're meant to look nice or not. But Haytham thinks they must be, because Desmond has clearly taken some concern with every other aspect of his appearance. His hair is neat, freshly cut and combed, and he's shaved more carefully than he does when he spends all his time in the animus.

Desmond swings his head around, looking for something, and his eyes catch on Haytham. His mouth twitches up into a smile, and Haytham can't help staring. He has seen Desmond as a child and as an adult, but he this is the only time he has seen him unworried. No wonder it had taken so long to find Desmond, Haytham thinks. The boy is standing up straight, unbowed by the weight of the troubles he had run away from as a child, or the responsibilities heaped on him as an adult. His body language is easy and open, and the little worry lines that the animus had so quickly etched across his face are not yet there.

"Hey," Desmond says. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Haytham says. "Why do you ask?"

Desmond shrugs. "You look like you're worried about something," he says. "And, uh—" he smiles a second time, a quick and casual expression that Haytham doubts Desmond would ever be capable of after the animus. "You look like you just escaped a Renaissance Faire or something."

"A what?" Haytham asks, and Desmond only shakes his head and laughs.

"Never mind," he says. "None of my business what you're wearing, right?"

Haytham shrugs and gets up from the bench, walking over to join Desmond—the man is leaning against a railing, looking down into an enclosure that Haytham hadn't been able to see from where he sat. Now that he's closer, he can see a couple lions stretched out in the sunlight in the (too small) pen. "Lions," he says, aware that it's not the most intelligent reaction to have.

"That one's going to have cubs soon," Desmond says, pointing to the female lion. "It's her first litter—the zookeepers didn't even think she could get pregnant."

"You sound like you know something about it," Haytham says.

"I guess," Desmond says with a shrug. "I just come here once in a while. No big deal. And I like talking to people. I've gotten to know a few of the people that work here."

"Do you really like talking to people?" Haytham asks, with genuine surprise. Desmond has never struck him as particularly outgoing or social. He'll talk, yes, but Haytham had never gotten the impression that Desmond really enjoyed it.

"Sure," Desmond says. "There's just lots of interesting people in the world, you know? I sort of had a sheltered childhood, and now that I'm out on my own, I want to meet people."

"Good for you," Haytham says softly.

"Which…" Desmond laughs. _Again_ , he laughs—Haytham almost asks him if he's feeling well, he's so unused to seeing him happy. "Which is actually what I'm here to do. Meet people, I mean. A couple of my friends are supposed to be here soon."

He has friends. Haytham never would have guessed. Perhaps this is actually another world, like the one Connor had accidentally fallen into with the apple. In _that_ world, George Washington had been king and Connor had been able to turn into animals. Desmond having friends, smiling, being confident—that has to be at least as strange.

Still, Haytham has a question he can't help asking. "You meet your friends in an animal jail?"

"It's a zoo," Desmond says. "Not a jail."

"I doubt the animals would agree," Haytham says. He's thinking of the eagle in its too small cage, mostly. Not that the lions have enough room to roam either. Haytham doubts the other zoo animals are any better off.

"I guess it's not great," Desmond says reluctantly. "But… I don't know. I always liked lions, and where else am I going to get to see them?"

Haytham only shrugs. He's too busy thinking of the stuffed lion a young Desmond had entrusted to him, _begged_ him to care for it because he wasn't allowed toys anymore, and there is no room in his mind to answer Desmond's question.

"I think I must have liked them when I was a kid, or something," Desmond muses, turning back to the lions. "You know how some things just stick with you for no good reason?"

Haytham smiles sadly. "Or maybe you did have a reason," he says. "And you just don't remember."

"Maybe," Desmond admits. "There's a lot of stuff I tried to forget from when I was a kid."

He's starting to look sad, and Haytham decides not to ruin Desmond's good day. "Goodbye," he says, and Desmond waves as Haytham steps away. He cannot go far from Desmond, of course, but he moves to the next animal pen (foxes) and pretends to be reading the informational sign. After a while, a few young men around Desmond's age come wandering over, and Haytham watches carefully as they greet each other, laughing and talking all at the same time.

He can't believe how normal Desmond's life is. How normal _Desmond_ is.

His visit ends, and Haytham is carried back to his own time.

-//-

His next visit to Desmond takes place only a week later. This time, Haytham spots Desmond at once. He is alone, as he always is, tucked away in some corner of the temple. He is sitting on the floor, huddled up inside his hoodie, face hidden, hands tucked inside his sleeves. He smells a little, like he hasn't bathed in too long, and when he looks up at Haytham (expression blank, eyes already dead), his face is scruffy and unkempt.

This is not a Desmond that has bothered to take care of himself in quite some time. It is not a Desmond with friends, a Desmond who laughs, a Desmond that says quite cheerfully that he likes talking to people.

But it is a Desmond that half reaches for Haytham before stopping, pulling back and shaking his head. This is a Desmond that needs Haytham (needs _anyone,_ maybe) but no longer has the words or the courage to ask. Haytham sits next to him at once, because he doesn't need to be asked. Desmond is a visitor. Desmond needs to be protected. "What's wrong?" he asks.

Desmond shakes his head. "Nothing," he says softly. "Just not feeling like myself today."

Not long ago, Haytham would have assumed that meant he was bleeding. But now he thinks it might mean something else—if the Desmond he saw at the zoo is really Desmond, Desmond as he should be, without the pain of the animus or the constant, looming threat of insanity… if that is the real Desmond, then Desmond has not _felt like himself_ for months. Even on the days that he does not bleed, he is nothing but a shadow of who he should be.

"Hey," Desmond says after a little while. He licks his lips nervously and glances at Haytham. "I'm, um… I'm mostly bleeding Connor today."

"I'm sorry," Haytham says, because Connor hates him. "Do you want me to leave?"

"No," Desmond says quickly, and again he almost reaches for Haytham. Words tumble from his mouth, almost desperate. "I just… I don't think you knew—I don't think _he_ ever knew that there was a part of him that wanted you as a father. But I can feel it today, and I—I need…"

They both know it is a bald faced lie, they know that Connor has never needed Haytham to be his father. But Desmond is trembling against Haytham's side, and the bright young man he had been is laughing in Haytham's memory, and Haytham is more than happy to pull Desmond toward his chest, and hold him tight. Desmond sniffs and starts to cry softly a few moments later, and Haytham does his best not to notice.

And maybe his own eyes are a little wet as well, because this is a cruel, unusual kind of death. To kill a man in mind, heart, and soul, and yet keep his body alive to suffer. It's just not fair, it's _not_.

Desmond does not settle in Haytham's arms, but continues to shake and cry, even after he has fallen asleep. And Haytham continues to hold him, as tight as he can, for as long as he can. But his visit ends (Haytham's last sensation of the twenty first century is Desmond slipping from his arms and falling unsupported to the floor.

When Haytham is safely back in his own rooms, he finds himself in need of comfort himself. He goes to the shelf where he keeps Desmond's lion, and keeps it with him until evening. When he turns into bed, he rests the animal next to him on the blanket, protecting it as he cannot protect Desmond.

-//-

Desmond has the shit kicked out of him on his eighth birthday.

His dad's the one that does it, because none of the kids he usually trains with will dare to hit him too hard. They're all as afraid of his father as Desmond is. But his father has decided that Desmond is advancing too slowly, and that the other kids need to get over their fear of hitting Desmond during practice fights.

So at the end of training, he singles Desmond out and gives a demonstration fight. Or at least, that's what he says. In reality, what he's doing is showing the others that he doesn't have a problem with Desmond being hurt—he hits and kicks and shoves, over and over again, while Desmond cowers away from hitting back (because he doesn't _like_ fighting, and because his father is absolutely untouchable, so far above Desmond that he cannot even imagine fighting back.

His father mocks him too, pointing out everything he does wrong, making a joke out of it until the other kids laugh (and Desmond is not an idiot, he knows what that means. It means that not only are they not afraid to hurt him anymore, but it's also about to become their new favorite game). At the end of it all, Desmond is left huddling alone in the training ring, until suddenly he is somewhere else.

He's bleeding onto someone else's floor, and Desmond's first instinct is to cover the injuries so he won't make a mess. He stands up, almost falling as his ankle shakes and refuses to hold his weight. He's somewhere dark, in an old fashioned room with a sleeping man holding a stuffed lion.

Hadn't he had a lion once? Desmond wracks his brain, trying to remember, but he's very carefully trained himself out of holding onto good memories. That way his dad can't get at them and _ruin_ them. If he ever had a lion, he must have buried the memory deep.

But maybe not deep enough? Desmond looks at the lion and the sleeping man, and something in him starts whispering _be brave, be brave…_ and he wants nothing more than to crawl between the lion and the man and feel safe.

He edges closer to the bed, and puts one small hand on the lion's tail, just next to the man's bigger one. He hadn't meant to wake the man, but his eyes slide open and look at Desmond, glowing gold.

"S—sorry," Desmond squeaks, jumping back at once. "Sorry, but… please, sir. Can I just…" his hand inches back toward the lion, and his voice drops into a whisper. "Can I hold him for a little bit?"

The man studies him for a moment, then nods and shifts to open his arms. Desmond does not hesitate but _runs_ toward the man and the lion, pressing himself against the stranger and snatching at the lion. It fits perfect in his arms, and Desmond feels something stir in his chest. With the man's firm arms around him and the lion safe and sound and letting him hug it ( _nobody_ lets Desmond hug them, _nobody_ , not even his mom does anymore because his dad said he was turning into a momma's boy and yelled a lot), Desmond feels something close to happiness for the first time in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the rambling-ness of this chapter, I haven't slept more than five hours a night in three days (and I have to get up at 6:30 to catch a plane, WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME) This was supposed to be a short Desmond-Haytham chapter and now it's four hours later and it's a long Desmond-Haytham chapter.
> 
> ...I'm going to bed now.


	69. Chapter 69

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CorylusAvellana, this chapter is mostly for you--I've been trying to decide for days whether or not this chapter was good enough to publish, but it has Haytham (sort of) punching William, so here you go.

Desmond is thrashing in his sleep when Haytham arrives, mumbling something unintelligible and sweating. He doesn't respond when Haytham tries to wake him, just shudders and flinches away.

"Desmond," Haytham says quietly. Then—"Desmond!" again, louder, when he doesn't respond. The other man shudders and shakes under Haytham's hand, and Haytham feels his own heart starting to speed up. He is old and experienced enough that combat rarely frightens him anymore. It is dangerous, yes, but no longer exciting enough to make his heart race—this, on the other hand, honestly scares him.

He has to help. It's as simple as that, he has to help _and he can't_. Desmond isn't responding to him, he won't wake, and he's just getting more and more distressed as time goes on. Haytham leans back, still crouching near Desmond but giving himself space now to think. What is he supposed to do? He can't fight something that only exists in Desmond's dreams…

Dreams.

A few months ago, Haytham had found himself visiting with several of the others—they'd sat and talked, because for once there had been nothing going on and nobody to fight. Altair had (grudgingly, reluctantly) related the story of the time a young Ezio had borrowed space in his body, and they'd sort of dreamed together. If Haytham can do the same thing now, with Desmond… perhaps he can help with whatever nightmare is troubling him.

The thought of sharing something as intimate as a dream makes Haytham's skin crawl. Still, if there's anyone he can trust with access to his subconscious, it would have to be his visitors. And Desmond is… Desmond. Haytham can't quite explain how he keeps being drawn deeper and deeper into Desmond's life, into caring about him, but—

Desmond groans again, and Haytham makes up his mind. Yes. This may not work, and it may be painful, but he will try. He leans closer over Desmond, and rests his hand on Desmond's shoulder. For a moment he does nothing, focusing on the feeling of jumping into a visitor's body, trying to slow it down and sort of feed himself gradually into Desmond, so that he won't simply force Desmond out of his body.

For a long while, nothing happens. Haytham just sits there, feeling vaguely ridiculous, rubbing Desmond's shoulder gently as the other man continues to shake. And then—all of a sudden—it works. Haytham is pulled out of himself and into Desmond, into the nightmare that is Desmond's dream.

He recognizes the place first. A small, barren room that he had come to once as a child, on a visit to Desmond. This is the bedroom where Desmond had grown up, and—yes. There is Desmond, curled up on the bed. He is small, in his dream, small because he is young but also small because he is curled up into as tight a ball as he can possibly manage.

Haytham takes a step or two toward him, and the world moves around him strangely—it is only then that Haytham realizes he is a child too. He moves forward again and vaults onto the bed, tugging at Desmond. "Come on!" he urges, trying to pull Desmond up with him. He doesn't understand the rules of this dream, but there is a tension in the air that he doesn't like, the dead certainty that something _bad_ is coming.

"No!" Desmond's voice is shrill as he pushes Haytham back, but there is no strength in him and Haytham catches his arms and pulls him up instead. "No, can't leave, can't—" His breath hitches in his chest and he looks at Haytham, eyes wild and pleading him to understand. "He'll _get_ me if I don't listen, he'll _get_ me—"

 "Who will?" Haytham asks.

Desmond inches closer to him, and leans upward—even in the dream, even with both of them reduced to children, Desmond is small and bowed, folded into himself so that he looks much younger than Haytham does at the moment. He cups his hands around his mouth and leans in close to whisper, as if afraid that someone will overhear. "The monster," he says, and the flat, absolute terror in his voice sends a shiver down Haytham's spine. Hard as he tries to keep himself in control, there is no rationality or logic to a dream. Perhaps there really is a monster, some nightmare creature that will come to get them…

No—he shakes his head sharply. _No_ , it is only a dream…

"You can't just sit here and wait for the monster to get you," he says. "You have to run while you can."

"It's worse if you run," Desmond says fervently. "Because he finds you and he's angry because you tried to get away…" He takes a deep breath and pushes again at Haytham, with only a little more strength than before. "You should go," he says. "The monster is coming for me, he doesn't want you. You can be safe if you go away now!"

Haytham shakes his head (The room is darkening around them, the light coming from the lamp by the door and streaming in through the open window turning red). "I'm not going to leave you," he says (He can hear heavy footsteps coming closer and closer, slow, rumbling steps like something plodding slowly toward them).

"You should," Desmond says. "I'm—I'm _broken_ , I'm no good anymore."

The footsteps are so close now that they shake the entire room, and the two boys with it—Desmond seems to be almost shaking apart, crumbling to dust in front of Haytham's horrified eyes. He reaches out to Desmond, and everything seems suddenly to happen at once.

The door bursts open and something horrible comes bursting through, a demon of pure hatred, a beast with six legs and teeth as long as a grown man's forearm. Fire burns in its eyes, and shining obsidian spikes burst from the thing's back. Haytham has a confusing glimpse of teeth and claws and spikes and scales, but there are other horrors to pay attention to. Because at the same moment, Desmond screams and clutches at Haytham, fingers scrambling to grip him even as he fades and crumbles into dust, utterly unmade by the fear of the _thing_ that has come crashing in on them. And as Haytham reels from the sudden shock of seeing Desmond undone in front of his eyes, a great and overwhelming fear comes crashing over him.

Haytham gasps and scrambles backward, as far away from the monster as possible. With Desmond's fear in his head, there is nothing Haytham can do. He is _terrified_ , he can't fight back (is this how Desmond feels every time he falls asleep?), he can't even think…

And then the monster turns to face Haytham, and Haytham's reaching fingers (trailing through the dust of what had a moment ago been Desmond) snag on something soft. In that moment, he recognizes in the face of the monster the thing that terrifies Desmond most. And he feels the only thing that makes him brave. Because the face of the monster is William Miles's face. And the soft thing in Haytham's hand is a grubby stuffed lion, one that Haytham knows very well.

He tightens his grip on the lion. Takes a deep breath. Nods. Because this is nothing but a dream, and William Miles is a coward and a fool, _not_ a monster—and because Haytham has to show Desmond that it's okay to be brave.

He stands up on the bed and settles the lion on his shoulder ( _be brave, be brave, be brave_ ). William-the-monster is only inches away from him by now, and there is fire and smoke leaking from his open mouth, and there is fear everywhere. The room is full of it, thick with it, heavy with a greasy feeling like terror made solid.

But it does not touch Haytham.

He focuses on the weight of the lion on his shoulder, opens his mouth, and _roars_ back at the monster. This thing is not allowed to win, it is not allowed to hurt Desmond any more. Haytham doesn't blink as the monster howls and stamps, although something in him is trembling with the absolute certainty (the kind of certainty that only exists in dreams) that this thing _can_ and _will_ hurt him.

He manages to strike a disinterested pose and demands—"Are you done?"

The monster pauses, apparently startled, and Haytham jumps forward, off the bed and _onto_ the beast with William's face. He hits it, hard, and does not stop. Haytham is a fighter, and he has waited a long time to get his fists onto William Miles.

At the beginning he is small, and the monster is large. But that doesn't stop Haytham from fighting, because some things are worth fighting for. And anyway, he doesn't much care if this is a nightmare. He is not afraid, he will _not_ cower, _he will not roll over and let this thing keep hurting Desmond._ As the fight goes on his courage grows, and so does he. By the end of it all, Haytham (an adult again, tall and proud at his full height) is left standing over not a monster but William Miles in human form. The man is shriveled, bleeding, broken, stretched out on the floor. And the fear that had been so thick in the air that Haytham could barely breathe a moment ago is gone. He steps back from William, takes a breath—the air has the fresh, clean quality of the morning after a rainstorm, refreshed and renewed.

Haytham looks around, searching out Desmond. This is still his dream, so he has to be here somewhere. Haytham wants him to see that there is nothing to be afraid of in this monster.

"Daddy!"

He doesn't quite see where Desmond appears from but suddenly the little boy is there, hugging Haytham tight around the waist (and Haytham wonders how much influence he has over all this—the monstrous William that Haytham had destroyed had obviously come from Desmond. But this is not the first time Haytham has dreamt of Desmond as his son—perhaps this is his own contribution to their dream). Haytham hugs back, lingering over the feel of Desmond, warm and real against him.

And then he wakes up.

He's back in his own body but still visiting, and Desmond is stirring next to him. Good. Good. "Desmond," Haytham murmurs. "Are you alright?"

"I'm—" Desmond stands up and looks away from Haytham. He seems embarrassed. "I just had a stupid nightmare. No big deal, I have them all the time."

"And are they always about your father?"

Desmond turns sharply toward him. "You _know_? You—oh!" his flush gets darker. "You were in my dream too, weren't you?" Haytham nods and Desmond's eyes seem to go dim. "I wish you hadn't seen that," he whispers. "I'm not proud of any of it."

"It's not your fault," Haytham says. "He's not a nice man. He's a _terrible_ father."

"He's not trying to be like that," Desmond whispers. "It's just… how he is."

"Still," Haytham grumbles. "He shouldn't be allowed to haunt your nightmares as well."

"I can't find a way to get him out," Desmond mutters. "But—thanks for helping tonight. I'm sorry you had to see all that. And I'm especially sorry for… you know. For that whole part at the end."

The part where he'd called Haytham _daddy_. The part Haytham had actually liked.

"No need to apologize," Haytham says. Stiffly. "I know how strange dreams can be."

"Still," Desmond insists. "I shouldn't have—"

"Really, Desmond," Haytham says. "It isn't the worst possible way to be thanked. Perhaps you'll understand—someday. If you have children of your own, you'll see that it's… it's nice."

"Even if it's just a dream?" Desmond says (and Haytham is _sure_ he must be imagining the wistfulness in his tone). Haytham nods, and Desmond sags a little. "Well, I'll take your word for it," he says. "I'm not likely to have a kid, am I? Not with this whole end of the world thing, and Abstergo out for my blood, and…" he trails off, heaving an enormous sigh. "No one's ever going to call _me_ dad."

"Would you want that?" Haytham asks.

Desmond nods, without looking at Haytham.

And Haytham thinks—he would have liked that too. To be a proper father, to _someone_. If only… if only Desmond felt the same way awake as he did asleep. If only Connor cared for Haytham at all. If only… if only something would go right.

He reaches out to Desmond, then checks himself and leans back. No. He will not impose himself on Desmond if the other man doesn't want to have him. He will wait as long as he has to, and he will always be ready to step in again, no matter what Desmond needs from him.


	70. Chapter 70

"I don't think I've ever seen your children getting along so well," Altair tells Aveline. It is a bright summer's day, and the two of them are sitting on Aveline's back porch, watching as her four children and what looks like the entire horde of grandchildren set up dinner on a long table in the yard. It's been a long, hot summer day, and when one of Aveline's sons had suggested eating outside in the gathering shade, they'd agreed that it sounded nice. Aveline's grandchildren run through the garden, laughing and shouting at one another. Everyone is smiling, and there is no sign of the arguments Altair is used to seeing when he visits Aveline with her children.

"They're getting better," Aveline says. Her voice is calm, but Altair knows her well enough to recognize that she is relieved by this progression. "Jeanne and Rory aren't fighting as much as they used to. They still do, of course. But now they try to avoid hurting each other unless it's strictly assassin-templar business. At times like this, when it's just family…" she looks fondly down at her children and grandchildren and in-laws. "They behave themselves. Usually."

"That's good," Altair says. He looks down as well, and finds himself unexpectedly choking up. "How many grandchildren do you have now?"

"Twelve," Aveline says proudly.

" _Twelve_?" Altair repeats, almost disbelieving.

"Oh yes," Aveline says. "Philippe and his wife have three—" she points to her oldest son and the thin lipped woman at his side, holding a baby. Two older children keep looking between their father and their cousins, clearly itching to go play as well. "And Rory has his son." She has to search for a moment before pointing out a toddler, half hidden behind a tree. He has some kind of sweet in his hand, and from his posture, Altair assumes he's not supposed to be eating it. "And then Tomas has eight." This time, she sweeps her arm vaguely, perhaps indicating the whole of the chaos in the yard. "Not all of them are legitimate, but he has at least claimed them all. That's something."

"It is," Altair agrees after a moment. "Although I can't say I'm jealous of how complicated your family must be."

"That's true," Aveline says. "We are rather a mess." She doesn't sound like this is at all a bad thing. "And you? How is your family doing?"

Altair sighs. He knows she's not asking about Maria. Or Sef. The hurt of those deaths has not faded (will not ever fade). It's not something that even his visitors are allowed to mention. "Sef's girls are growing up," he says. "I rarely see them. Darim does not. I mean, he has never…" He looks at Aveline, exasperated. "There is no one in his life. No wife, no children. I don't know if he prefers to be alone, or if there is something preventing him from finding that. Maybe his brother's death hurt him more than he ever told me. Or—"

"Or maybe he's just not interested in a wife and children," Aveline says kindly. "There are many assassins and templars in this time that choose to remain unwed because they don't want to put a spouse or children in danger." She laughs. "Shay and I used to joke that we should introduce them to each other."

"That would have been an interesting approach," Altair agrees. "I can't say I think assassins and templars together is a bad idea." Again, he thinks of Maria. The spike of pain in his gut is old and familiar.

"Grandma, grandma!" one of the grandchildren comes running toward Aveline. Altair recognizes him as the one that had been sneaking treats. He's pouting now. "Papa says I can't eat cake before dinner!"

"Well you do have to listen to your papa, don't you?" Aveline asks, holding her hands out for the boy to take. He hugs her legs.

"I guess…" he sighs. "But I like cake!"

"Patrick," Aveline says firmly. "How much do you like cake?"

He holds his hands about a foot apart. "This much!"

"And how much do you love your papa?"

He hesitates, then holds his arms as far apart as he can manage.

"That's what I thought," Aveline says, ruffling his hair fondly. "So no cake before dinner, alright?"

"After dinner?" he asks hopefully.

"I think we can work something out," Aveline promises, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Papa!" Patrick turns around and goes running after Rory. "Papa, grandma says I can have cake after dinner!"

Altair is too far away to hear the rest of the conversation, but he catches the smile on Patrick's face, an echo of the one on Rory's. He sees Jeanne come wandering over, talking easily with her brother and nephew. It's the first time Altair has seen the pair talk without arguing. It's good.

"You have a lot of love in this family," he says.

"As unlikely as I might have once thought it--I do," Aveline says.

"Unlikely? I've seen the way you treat Shay, the way both of you treat your children. This kind of family was inevitable for you."

"My mother left when I was young," Aveline says quietly. "My stepmother was a templar that killed my father. Most of what I learned of love, I learned from my visitors. If I have a good family, it's because of you and the others."

Altair smiles at her, and the two of them sit in companionable silence until Aveline is called to dinner and Altair is sent home at the end of his visit.


	71. Chapter 71

Ezio wakes in the middle of the night because someone is shaking him hard. He blinks his eyes open, checks to make sure Sofia is still safely asleep (she is), that templars aren't invading (they aren't), and then turns over to see who's keeping him awake.

It's Edward. Of course it is.

"Why do you have kids, Ezio?" Edward demands when he sees Ezio is awake.

"What?" He groans and rubs at his face. "Edward, it's the middle of the night."

"It's important!" Edward protests.

"Edward—"

Edward sits on him.

"Fine," Ezio mutters. He sits up and pushes Edward off him. "What do you want, you crazy, _crazy_ person?"

"I already told you," Edward complains. He slides off Ezio and lays down next to him, shifting close. Because this is Edward, and there is a bed, so of course he wants to cuddle. "Why do you have kids?"

"Well, you see—" Normally, Ezio likes Edward perfectly well. Tonight, he'd rather like to get some sleep. "Sometimes, when a man and a woman lie together, they make a child—"

"I said _why_ , not _how_ ," Edward protests. "I do get the general idea, thanks. But I mean… why do you want them? Are they…" he struggles for appropriate words. "Are they worth it?"

"Are they _worth_ it?" Ezio repeats. Maybe it's just too early, but he's not following. What kind of question is that? It's like asking if it's worth bothering to breathe. "They're worth everything."

Edward seems to consider this for several long moments. Then he wrinkles his nose up. "But don't they smell?"

"You smell," Ezio reminds him.

"But I'm used to my own smell," Edward says. " _And_ you'll be happy to know I've started bathing regularly. I don't know why everyone has to keep nagging me about it."

"You smell," Ezio says again. "Really, really bad."

"But babies smell like poop and stuff don't they?" Ezio asks. "And… I don't know, vomit?"

"Edward," Ezio says, with as much patience as he can manage. "Did you wake me up in the middle of the night to ask me if having babies is worth putting up with them smelling like poop?"

"Um…"

"Edward?"

"Yes."

"Edward!"

"What?" He flops over so he's lying on his side, looking at Edward, and impatiently blows a lock of hair out of his face. "It's a really important question!"

"I don't understand why."

"Because Tessa wants to have a baby," Edward says matter of factly. "And I think it's a bad idea."

"You mean…" he stops himself from mentioning Haytham's name. He wonders if Haytham would have hidden his identity from his father if he knew how much trouble it would eventually cause for the other visitors. Probably. "You should have the baby," he says.

"I don't think I'll be allowed to have any fun if I'm a dad," Edward says. "I'll have to do boring dad stuff all the time."

"You're already a dad," Ezio says. Patiently. Having a serious conversation with Edward is often difficult. "You have Jenny."

"But—" Edward doesn't quite look Ezio in the eye. "I'm pretty sure she was disappointed in me from the beginning. I walked out on her and her mother before she was even born. Screwed that one up really good."

Ezio sighs and rolls over so his back is to Edward. "Just have the baby," he says. "Babies are good. And I'm sure you haven't screwed things up with Jenny. Girls are hard."

"But—"

"Go to sleep."

"I don't want to _sleep_." 

Little hands tug at Ezio's foot from the bottom of the bed, and Ezio sits up. Marcello is standing there, tugging uncertainly on his father's foot with one hand and rubbing sleepily at his face with the other one. He makes a sleepy, grumbling noise of complaint. "Who're you talking to?" he asks.

"Did I wake you up?" Ezio asks. Marcello nods sadly, and Ezio gestures for him to come join him in bed. The little grin Marcello gives him as he bounces up and onto the bed is—well, it's one of the reasons Ezio had been able to so easily assure Edward that children are worth it. Ezio grins too as Marcello accidentally sticks a foot into Edward's face, and then his son curls up on his chest. He's almost getting too big for this, but Ezio will miss his son sleeping on top of him. He strokes Marcello's hair until the boy makes happy little noises like a purring kitten.

"Were you talking to mama?" he asks, without opening his eyes.

Ezio chuckles. "No," he says fondly. "No, your mother has to chase you and me and your sister around all day. She could sleep through anything."

Marcello opens his eyes, suddenly interested, and sucks in a great lungful of air. Ezio recognizes the signs that Marcello is going to test this, to see if Sofia actually _can_ sleep through anything, and Ezio immediately claps a hand over Marcello's mouth. "Not shouting in her ear," he says sternly. "She can't sleep through that."

"Oh," Marcello mumbles, settling back down again. "Okay. But who were you talking to then?"

"A friend of mine," Ezio says lightly. He hasn't exactly explained his visitors to either of his children, but he hasn't made a secret of the fact that he sometimes talks to people no one else can see. He'll have to address it soon (if nothing else, he thinks it's giving his kids weird ideas about invisible friends—Marcello in particular seems to have a whole platoon of them, like he's playing at having visitors the same way Flavia plays house with her dolls. It's cute and weirdly flattering, but still strange). "His name's Edward."

"Hi Edward," Marcello says, waving vaguely as he closes his eyes again and rests his head on Ezio's chest. "You be quiet, it's papa's bedtime."

Edward makes a noise like a fart and Ezio kicks him. Not as hard as he wants to, because he has a five year old sleeping on his chest, but hard enough to make Edward topple off the cramped bed when he fails to maintain his balance. "Ow," he complains from the floor. Then Ezio hears a sigh, and Edward drags himself back into a standing position. For a little while he just stands there, watching Marcello sleeping on Ezio's chest, with Ezio's arms wrapped protectively around him to keep the boy from falling. "It's really worth it?" he asks, almost reluctantly.

"Yep."

Edward gives a long, exasperated sigh. "Fine," he says. But his voice sounds far less reluctant than his sigh would suggest. He puts his hand out, almost like he wants to touch Marcello. At the last second he stops and shakes his head. "Maybe a baby wouldn't be so bad."

"Of course not," Ezio promises. It'll be great. He closes his eyes, vaguely aware that Edward has crawled back into be next to him, and makes a mental note to make sure Haytham knows he wouldn't have been born if Ezio hadn't talked Edward into having a baby.


	72. Chapter 72

Shay's visit ends and Connor snaps back into his own body. For an instant he stands where Shay had left him, pinning Achilles down and holding his blade to the old man's throat. Then the horror and revulsion hit him, hard, and Connor pushes himself away. He cannot bear to look at Achilles. He opens his mouth, tries to speak. But what explanation can he offer for trying to kill the man that has agreed to train him? He can't explain that it was Shay, taking his body, _using_ him, trying to kill the old man—

He shakes his head abruptly and hurries from the room. This is—this is…

Connor will never be an assassin now. Achilles will turn him away, and he will absolutely deserve it. He should have guarded himself more carefully. He knows that visitors can take each other's bodies over (Ezio has explained it to him, while expounding on the many, many opportunities he has to kiss himself because of visiting). But he hadn't thought any of them really would.

He's sitting on a rock when Achilles finds him, his back to the house. Connor stiffens at the sound of footsteps, and turns in Achilles's general direction. He still can't look the old man in the face, but he holds out his hidden blades, staring at his shoes. "I'm sorry," he says. "I will leave, but I thought you might want these back." His face feels hot. He's trying not to think how his visitors will react to hearing he couldn't make it as an assassin. Disappointed in him, most likely. Perhaps his father will be pleased, which doesn't do anything to make Connor feel better.

Achilles makes a grumbling noise of complaint as he sits down on the rock next to Connor, and stretches out his bad knee. He looks at the blades Connor holds out to him, and after a long moment he takes them. Connor feels something sharp inside him at their loss. "When I agreed to teach you, I said I'd seen someone with your particular kind of madness before."

Connor frowns deeply. He does not like when Achilles refers to visiting like that, but it is at least partially his own fault for never explaining. All the old man knows is that Connor talks to thin air (although not often, not anymore—not when anyone is around to hear him). "I… I do not…" he looks away. "I do not want to talk about that."

"Did you really just try to kill me?" Achilles asks. He sounds absolutely calm on the subject of his own death. Perhaps because he is an assassin? Maybe this is normal.

Connor looks at him sideways. "You saw what happened," he says after a moment.

"Yes," Achilles says, and for the first time in Connor's memory, he sounds uncertain. "And I don't think I saw you." He looks down at Connor's blades. "This is the second time Shay Cormac has been in a position to kill me."

"He…" Connor isn't entirely sure what to say. "Everything is complicated," he says. "But I should have guarded against him. I should not have let him use me to hurt you like that."

Achilles sighs. He sounds genuinely upset as he goes on. "I suppose we have a decision to make," he says. "About whether you stay or go."

"I have to go," Connor says. "You were right. That was Shay that tried to kill you. And you did not see the look on his face. I believe he would try the same thing again if he ever gets the chance."

"Will he get the chance?" Achilles asks. The look he levels on Connor is like daggers straight through him. "Will you let him do that to you again?"

"No," Connor says. He forces the word out through gritted teeth. "No, I will _never_ let me guard down around Shay again. He is a templar and I am an assassin, and this is… it's just a part of the fight. I will have to be stronger than he is. And I can—" He realizes that he is pleading, almost desperate for forgiveness. The old man's opinion is important. It didn't used to be, because he was just someone that could teach Connor to fight. But… things have changed.

"Good," Achilles says. He sounds pleased. "Then you can have these back." He hands Connor's hidden blades back to him, and stands. "We don't have to talk about this again."

He has barely started hobbling back to the house (moving more slowly than he normally does, in Connor's opinion—as if something has brought the pain of his old injury into the forefront of his mind) when Connor stands up and turns around. "Achilles," he says. "I don't want to talk about this any more than you do, but I really need you to know that I wouldn't hurt you. You have helped me. A lot. More than I had any right to expect when I came here." He shuffles his feet. "You've been like a fa… like a friend to me. A very good friend. I don't have a lot."

They stand there looking at each other for a very long moment. Then Achilles makes an obvious attempt to regain control. "Put those back on," he says, gesturing to the blades. "We have a lot left to do today."


	73. Chapter 73

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set sometime during Evie meets everyone. Probably near the end.

Evie really needs to talk to Tomas Cormac.

She can't make herself go to the man's house, so Evie corners him at the docks instead. At first she keeps to the rooftops, trailing him and the little boy at his side. For such an old man (he's in his mid-seventies, if Evie has done her homework correctly—and she always does), he seems impressively spry. He occasionally even outpaces the little boy that walks at his side, holding his hand.

Evie trails them to an alley, and then stops abruptly as the old man turns and looks up at her. His eyes are bright and there's a cheeky grin on his face that wouldn't look out of place on a much younger man.

"Oi!" he shouts, letting go of the boy to cup his hands around his mouth and shout at Evie. "Come down and say hello, why don't you? Or don't you have any manners?"

Evie doesn't think it's really a matter of _manners_. It's not like she introduces herself to every target she tracks. But this man isn't a target, he's… well, she hopes that he will be a friend. So she drops from the roof to the ground, and stands (slightly uncomfortably) in front of the old man and the little boy.

"Well," the old man says, when Evie continues to struggle for words. "I assume you know who we are."

"You're Tomas Cormac," Evie says. "I can't say I know him."

"I'm gonna be a pirate!" the little boy says, waving a wooden sword in the air enthusiastically. "Arr!"

"Just like your grandpa!" Tomas says proudly, patting the little boy on the head. He turns back to Evie, still grinning. "So what are you? Assassin? Templar? I have to tell you that if I'm your target, and you're planning to take me out in front of my grandson—" He's still smiling at her. "I'll warn you that just because I'm old doesn't mean I'm not dangerous."

"Me too!" the boy insists. "I'm dangerous too! I bit my sister."

"Um…" Is this supposed to be a good thing? Jacob had gone through a weird phase of biting her when they'd been about this kid's age. She hadn't liked it much. "You're not a target," she says to Tomas, because she doesn't know what to tell the grandson.

"But you've been following us for fifteen minutes," Tomas says.

"I didn't—you saw me?"

He pats her on the shoulder, almost comfortingly. "Don't feel too bad about it," he says. "My father was a templar and my mother was an assassin, and when I was a kid I used to sneak out of the house and steal ships."

The little boy is now looking at his grandfather in something like awe.

Tomas smiles in obviously false modesty. "I learned how to tell when someone was watching me."

"Oh," Evie says.

"So… why are you here if you're not going to kill me?" Tomas asks.

"I'm not entirely sure," Evie admits quietly. "But I knew your parents. Briefly. I… I don't know what I was expecting, but—"

"You must have been born after they died," Tomas says.

"I was," Evie agrees. "But I... I still met them."

"You're one of the invisible people!" Tomas says, abruptly breaking into a grin, and to Evie's complete surprise he wraps her up in an aggressive hug. The grandson joins in for no discernible reason, hobbling Evie's knees. She wonders for a second if they're trying to incapacitate her and drag her off—she's not entirely sure that would surprise her, from this pair. But then Tomas lets go, and nudges his grandson away. "This is amazing!" he says. "I love meeting my parents' invisible friends. I only ever got to meet Uncle Connor, and..." he winks at her. "He was much less attractive."

"Well--thank you. I think. Except I'm not… not exactly one of them," Evie says. "I only got to meet them once. But they both seemed like nice people. They helped me. I wanted to find out more about them, and… I tracked you down. I don't really know what I'm looking for. I just—"

"Come on," Tomas says, jerking his head for her to follow and taking his grandson's hand.

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere quieter where we can talk," Tomas says. "I just need to get this one back to his parents before naptime is over."

"We sneaked out," the kid says, proudly.

Evie tries to resist rolling her eyes, and tries even harder not to smile. God, but he's going to grow up _just_ like Jacob. "You said you have a sister, right?" she asks.

"Yea. So what?"

"So that's good," she says. "It means you have someone to keep you in line."

Tomas laughs as the little boy pouts, and the rest of the walk back to Tomas's house is cheerful and full of talk. When they get there, Tomas shushes Evie and his grandson, and then carefully maneuvers the boy in through an open window at the back of the house. He climbs in after, and Evie follows just in time to see Tomas tucking the kid into bed.

"Don't tell momma we went out," the boy whispers sleepily, and Tomas hugs him with honest affection.

"Of course not," he promises. "It'll be our secret."

The boy is asleep before his head hits the pillow, and Tomas gestures at Evie to follow him out of the room. They head to a little room upstairs, warmed by a fire and full of what looks like trophies from ships. Old maps, a chest against the bed, models artfully arranged on the nightstand. "So," he says, when he's comfortably settled. "What did you want to know about my parents?"

Evie takes a deep breath. "How about we start with… everything?"


	74. Chapter 74

Connor had never thought about being a father. It's just not something he ever would have imagined would fit in with his quest for revenge. But that's over now, Charles Lee lies dead and Connor is free to think about other things. A wife. Emily. And a son.

Matthew.

With all the death and pain and suffering that Connor has brought into the world, he has also managed to do something good. He'd been so… so worried, when Emily was pregnant. He knows all the violence that he's capable of. And he knows what his father and grandfather can do.

It's a long trail of blood and violence, an unhappy heritage that isn't fair to lay on a child's shoulders. But Matthew will never know Haytham or Edward, and Connor is going to do his best to make sure Matthew never finds out what he does. After all, he's managed to hide his work from Emily so far.

It's not a good feeling, lying to the important people in his life. Sometimes it makes Connor feel incredibly guilty, but then he'll see them again. He'll remember why it was all worth it.

Like this morning. This morning, Connor had woken up to the sound of Matthew singing in his bedroom. It had carried down the hall to the room where Connor and Emily sleep together on their bed. Connor gently untangles himself from his wife and goes down the hall to find out what Matthew his doing. When he gets there, he finds the boy spinning in circles, laughing and dancing and singing a nonsense song.

Connor stops in the doorway, a smile tugging his mouth upward almost against his will. How did he get so lucky? Three generations of horrible, unhappy tragedies. Murder and kidnapping and betrayal, and Matthew turns out perfectly normal. Maybe he's just lucky he's not a visitor. Maybe _that's_ the curse.

No. Connor shakes his head to chase away the thought. No, visiting has been good to him. It's not exactly a curse.

It _is_ hard to deny that Connor, his father, and his grandfather have lived unhappy lives, and that they are visitors. Connor's son is not a visitor and he is happy, as had (as far as Connor knows) Edward's father. It's an interesting connection, if nothing else.

"Matthew," he calls, and his son dances over to him. "What are you doing?"

"Playing," Matthew says. "I didn't want to wake you or momma."

"That was very nice of you," Connor says seriously.

"I'm very nice," Matthew says, around a giggle. "You're awake now. Play with me?"

Ah. Now this part of being a parent is hard. What is he supposed to play with a two-year-old? He glances out the window, and sees that it's a beautiful spring morning outside. Perfect. "Get dressed," he says. "And we can go outside, alright?"

Matthew chirps his agreement, and Connor helps him to dress, then follows him downstairs and outside. For a while, Matthew is content to run around in the open space in front of the house. He has so much energy, it honestly amazes Connor. He'd run all day if he was allowed, but eventually Connor goes chasing after him and scoops him up.

"No…!" Matthew protests. "No, I wanna play more!"

"You need to eat," Connor points out.

"Not hungry," he pouts. "Daddy!"

But when Connor carries him inside and sits him on a chair in the kitchen, Matthew immediately starts complaining that he wants food. Because that's the other thing kids do, apparently, they run around and they eat. Connor is not the world's best cook, but he can manage breakfast at least. While Matthew makes a mess of the food in front of him, Connor simply leans against the wall and watches him. It's a calm, quiet morning, a _perfect_ morning.

"What are you thinking about?" Shay asks. Connor hadn't even realized he'd arrived. He nods in greeting, and speaks quietly—he doesn't really want Matthew to grow up thinking his father is crazy.

"Just—that I finally have a family."

Shay looks at Matthew, now spreading his food around the table in some kind of childish art, and smiles. "I'm jealous," he admits.

Connor looks at Matthew, then back at Shay. There was a time in his life when he would have like nothing so much as Shay's death. But—things are different now. He's different. Shay is different. And now, bizarrely, he finds himself trying to comfort the templar.

"You have Aveline," he says. "Maybe one day, you and she can…"

"Not while visiting," Shay says glumly. "At least—if it is possible to conceive a child on a visit, one of us must be completely infertile."

Connor gives a little snort of laughter and looks away. Well. That's fairly impossible to argue with. "Still," he says. "It's something worth trying for."


	75. Chapter 75

Desmond sits in his little corner of the temple, trying not to look at his phone. He's already recorded all the messages he'd planned on leaving, just in case… just in case he doesn't make it past the twenty first of December. He has one for his dad, short and quiet and more confused than he'd meant it to be. Desmond has half a hundred things he'd _like_ to say to his father, but none of them seem right for a final goodbye. He's got a message for Rebecca on there too, a little more upbeat than the one for his father, and a similar one for Shaun. He'd even left one for his mother. Just in case she ever gets a chance to hear it.

Who else is he supposed to leave one for? He'd had friends before he was taken by Abstergo. Good friends, even, people he'd genuinely liked. But not one of them would understand why he has to do this. And he doesn't want to associate that part of his life with what's happening now. He'd been happy then. If any of those friends knew what's happened to him, if they saw him all broken and crazy like he is now, they wouldn't have even recognized him.

Desmond isn't even sure he'd recognize himself, if he saw the person he used to be. Sometimes he's glad visitors can't meet themselves like that.

But with the people here and the people in his past taken care of, who does that leave? There's no one else in his life he could want to say goodbye to. Maybe this feeling is just his mind's way of telling him he doesn't _want_ to say goodbye. He doesn't want to die, he just—isn't ready for whatever happens next.

He puts his phone back in his bag.

A while later, he takes it back out again. He has _someone_ he wants to talk to, and it's driving him crazy (crazier) to not be able to figure it out. Someone important. Someone that Desmond would feel bad about leaving. He'd left a message for his dad out of obligation. One for his mom because he missed her. One each for Rebecca and Shaun because it seemed stupid not to, when he'd already left one for his dad and they were better friends than he was.

But there's… something else. He feels like there's someone he doesn't want to leave behind. He wants to give them something of himself for—for when he's gone. If he goes. Damnit, he doesn't want to die, he doesn't want to—he's _scared_.

And in his fear, he starts to slip. He is so desperate not to be Desmond anymore that his mind starts throwing alternatives up at him. There are plenty of other people in his head to choose from, and Desmond is so low right now that he doesn't even fight it. He's crazy. He knows his crazy. His father and his friends know he's crazy. Fuck, even his _hallucinations_ know he's crazy. What's the point of fighting it?

Desmond bounces for a while from one mind to another. He doesn't really know what he's saying or doing, doesn't know who he is and who he's not or what the difference is supposed to be. He talks to himself, to the things his mind paints on empty air in front of him, laughs and cries and shouts and _consistently, overwhelmingly hates himself for falling apart, for being weak—_

In an odd moment of clarity, he finds himself on his feet, leaning against a wall with his phone in his hand. He feels oddly calm, and when he looks down he sees that he's recorded something. But he doesn't remember doing that. Who did he leave a message for?

And then a half dozen odd minds wash back through his, and he loses himself again. But this time, he tries to direct his insanity a little bit more carefully than he had before.

Desmond is starting to learn his way around the bleeding effect. If he's not careful, if he lets himself become too much of any of his ancestors, he starts to think he _is_ that ancestor. That's the worst, because it's so loud. He doesn't know how many times he's woken up with his father or Rebecca or Shaun shouting his name, doing everything they can think of to pull him back to himself. But it's… it's sort of a balancing act, and if Desmond doesn't let himself become too much of anyone, he gets to a place where he's no one at all. Just an empty nothing until someone snaps him out of it.

He lives in perpetual hope that one day he'll bury himself too deep for anyone to ever get him back.

Desmond crouches on the floor, head in his hands. Altair comes pushing up from his subconscious first, as he so often does. He's been there the longest, and he's _so_ hard to keep out of his head. Desmond grits his teeth and lets Ezio out. For a second that's all he is, Ezio with a bit of Altair, but that—no, that can't be right. Ezio admires Altair, he's his hero, his _idol_. They're not the same person, he can't be both at once. His mind slips sideways, and Connor comes rushing up to meet him.

Well, that's easy to fight. He lets Haytham out, and his mind bursts into fire, angry flames of bitter hatred between father and son. Whoever he is (and that certainty is starting to slip slowly away) he is not Connor _and_ Haytham. The very idea of that sets of fireworks of pain inside his skull, and Edward comes sneaking up to try and claim his mind—he fights that off with just a little bit of Desmond. There is no one in him that is less like the confident, brash pirate than Desmond.

Six people. Six people, all sharing space in one man's head. It's too much for any human mind to take, and this one caves in on itself. Collapses into nothing. He falls sideways, feeling blissfully disconnected from this body that might-or-might-not be his. The ground hurts. He doesn't care, just turns onto his back and stares unblinkingly upward, into the darkness.

Time passes.

He doesn't know how much.

Not a single thought runs through his head.

-//-

Haytham almost trips over Desmond in the darkness, and for a moment he's so still and silent that Haytham thinks he's dead. His heart freezes inside him, and he's honestly afraid until he crouches down and feels a steady pulse on Desmond's neck. But the boy doesn't move when Haytham touches him, he just lies there.

"Desmond?"

Nothing, no response. Haytham reaches out and slaps Desmond across the face, not hard enough to hurt but hopefully hard enough to knock him out of it. Desmond's head falls sideways and stays there. He's like a limp ragdoll, sprawled out on the ground. Haytham knows this isn't permanent, because Desmond had been himself when he died, but seeing his body here without his mind is a special kind of fear.

It's so dark that Haytham can't even see Desmond, and only their surroundings tells him who he's come to visit. He reaches out for Desmond's hand, just to keep track of where he is, and settles down on the floor at Desmond's side.

Something beeps next to his foot, and Haytham looks down to see Desmond's phone flashing angrily at him. He picks it up uncertainly, and when he opens it there are words informing him that a new message has been recorded, and would he like to play it back?

Haytham would _not_ like to play it back, but he has no idea how phones work and it starts up anyway.

_"H-hey."_

It's Desmond's voice, soft and shaking. Haytham pauses his efforts to get the phone to shut up, because what if this is some kind of explanation of what has happened to Desmond? Haytham does his best to calm himself, and glares at the phone.

 _"Uh… this message is for Haytham. And I don't—I don't know why. I can't decide who you are, I…"_ he sounds sort of angry and sort of afraid and absolutely miserable. _"Who are you to me? Are you my son or my father or—I don't know who I am, so I'm… I'm sorry I don't know who you are either. I just know that you're really, really important and I needed to leave this for you. I keep feeling like this is something I have to do, because whoever I am, I don't think I'm going to live much longer."_

The message goes silent for so long that Haytham genuinely thinks it might be the end. But then Desmond sighs over the phone's speaker and goes on.

_"I'm so scared to die. I don't want to, I don't… I don't want to. But I'm going to, I guess. I just know it, and I wanted to make sure you have something from me. It's not much but um… hold onto me? Please? I just—it's stupid, but I feel like if you have this, you have my voice and I… I won't be completely gone. If you're holding onto me, I'm safe."_

The message ends with a little grunt of pain, and Haytham squeezes Desmond's hand instinctively. He would have given almost anything to save Desmond. Failing that, he would have carried this message forever. But he can't pull things through time when he visits. He can't… he can't hold onto this little piece of Desmond's voice the way Desmond had asked him to.

The phone keeps beeping obnoxiously, and Haytham finally hits all the buttons at once, which seems to work.

He doesn't see the phone start recording as he tosses it back to the ground next to Desmond.

What is he supposed to do here? Haytham flatters himself to think that Desmond might possibly care for him, and he has certainly come to feel something. Almost protective. He doesn't want to lose Desmond to this strange, still silence. "Don't go," he says quietly. "I know you're hurting, Desmond. I've seen you struggling and fighting on almost every visit we've had. But more and more, I've seen you giving up.

"I don't blame you," he goes on quickly. "Never. There's only so much pain a person can take before they can't stand up anymore. I guess I just wanted to say that I miss you. Even with visiting—and I _know_ —" he almost smiles. "You don't believe any of this. But I saw you die. It was horrible, and ever since then, I can't—I can't see you the same way. Seeing you is like looking at a ghost, and every time you do this, every time you give up it's like watching you die again." There's no one around to see his tears, no one but Desmond. And he isn't really here either. "I really, _really_ miss you, Desmond. I hate that you had to die, and I hate this thing you're doing to yourself. I— _no!"_

This last shout draws stares from the people around him, because suddenly Haytham is not alone in a temple in the twenty first century, he's on a crowded Boston street in his own time. He's not with Desmond anymore, he hadn't even been able to hold on long enough to see the boy wake up…

Sometimes, visiting can be absolutely, _cruelly_ , unfair.

-//-

Two hundred years in the future, Desmond is jolted back to himself by the sound of his father furiously shouting for him. Instincts honed from infancy won't let him stay still when his dad is that angry. He shakes the last of the bleeding effect away, struggles for a moment to remember his name, then shouts back at his father that he's coming.

"English, Desmond!" his dad shouts back.

Why English? He's _supposed_ to be speaking in Arabic. He's—

No, English. English, right. He can manage that. He picks up his phone without glancing at it and stuffs it into his bag. It's beeping like he has a new message, but he can't make himself care. It's probably just some nonsense babbling crap he'd left for himself while he was bleeding.

He heads down to join the others. He has the whole morning off from the animus, but two hours of that are set aside for discussion of the things Desmond has uncovered in the animus so far. As soon as Desmond joins his father, Rebecca, and Shaun, William launches into an exhaustive analysis of the last several memories Desmond has relived.

Desmond doesn't notice (and the others are too tired to point out) that while he _does_ in fact manage to stick to English through the entire discussion, his accent doesn't once deviate from Haytham's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... am I beating a dead horse yet? Are you guys sick of Haytham-Desmond feels?


	76. Chapter 76

Altair is camped out on the road to Jerusalem when Ezio arrives. More precisely, he is turned away from his small fire, cleaning his blades so they will be ready when he needs them, when he notices that the shadows cast by the flickering flames have changed. Altair had not been expecting conflict. This campsite is well away from the main road, in a little dip that keeps his fire from being seen by anyone unless they're right on top of him.

His weapons have been removed for the night, and it will take Altair far too long to reach them. He turns sharply toward the fire, and relaxes only when he recognizes Ezio there. "Oh," Altair says. "It's just you."

This is the kind of comment that would normally get a rise out of Ezio, and Altair would honestly have appreciated the company tonight. He has a long, lonely night ahead of him before he reaches his destination, and he's only there to speak with some of the assassins that have recently been posted to the city. There is no target or mission to prepare for, and so Altair knows he will be utterly unable to find some other way of occupying his mind.

But tonight, Ezio only makes a little grunting noise and shakes his head. His gaze is fixed on the fire, and in its light Altair can see a deep frown etched across his face. And he is silent.

"What's wrong?" Altair asks softly, moving to Ezio's side. He crouches next to the other assassin, somewhere between sitting and standing. It is a fitting position, given that he is mentally somewhere between trying to help his—friend? Yes, friend—and trying to avoid a situation that looks like it's going to become emotional very quickly.

Ezio doesn't seem to notice his hesitation. Then again, he would presumably have to be looking at Altair to pick up on that, and he won't look away from the fire. Around them, there is nothing but the deep darkness that lies on the road between cities, and—far above them—the stars.

"Ezio?" Altair prompts, when the silence begins to grow as large and empty as the darkness. "Would you like to…? We can discuss whatever's bothering you."

Ezio only hesitates a moment. Then he says, "I am growing old."

"A rare gift for those of us in the brotherhood," Altair says. "Why is that a problem?"

Ezio shrugs despondently. "I didn't think it would happen all at once like this," he says. "A month ago I still thought I was a young man, but…" He finally looks at Altair. "I am older than my father was when he died. It's made me sit down and think. About a lot of things."

"What kind of things?"

Ezio sighs. "I'm not sure if you're the right person to talk to about this."

"Ezio," Altair sighs. "I frequently struggle to get you to pay less attention to me, but I am your friend. And if you're struggling with something, I would like you to feel comfortable sharing it with me."

"I am considering my place in the assassins," Ezio admits. "I fell into this role when I was… when I was a _child_. It wasn't something I ever examined, and maybe it should be, because—nothing is true, yes?  Everything needs to be questioned, and I—" His voice gets faster, more obviously upset. "I _threw_ myself into the assassins because it was the only way I could avenge my family and I needed to do that. But today I find myself older than my father, and my uncle is dead." Altair hears the catch in his voice that means this grief must be new. "I woke this morning in Roma, and realized that I am going to have to rebuild the brotherhood in the city from scratch. Because the city is a mess, because the people are suffering, because… because no one else is going to do it."

"So…" Altair struggles for a moment with trying to understand this problem. Ezio is far easier to understand than some of their other visitors, but Altair is still finding himself at a loss for anything helpful to say. "So this is about not feeling adequate for the responsibility? Or—"

"Not really," Ezio says. "I suppose it's… when I put these robes on for the first time, I wasn't expecting to wear them forever. Now I realize that I'll most likely have to, and I don't remember making that decision. There was no moment when I sat down and said yes, this is what I want to do for the rest of my life. It was only ever a series of little things. One step at a time along the path that led to the man that ordered my father's death. Every time I thought I was nearly done, I realized there was one more thing to do, and then this morning I realized there will never be an end to the things that need doing. If I let it, this mission will see me through the entire rest of my life. Revenge has consumed decades of my life already. Can I really let it take the rest?"

"Of course not," Altair says. "Revenge hurts. Revenge will consume you and it will not bring your family back. But I hope you have seen enough of the brotherhood to know that we do good."

Ezio sighs. Nods. "Yes," he says. "And I suppose that I could never really leave the assassins. I'm just picturing the entire rest of my life as an assassin, and it seems so…" he looks morosely at Altair, and his expression is almost pleading for understanding. "Lonely."

Ah. Now there is a problem Altair has come to understand—he used to think he thrived on his own, that others only slowed him down. Then he'd been demoted to novice, and learned what it really means to be alone. He pats Ezio comfortingly. "Just because you will be an assassin for the rest of your life, that doesn't mean it will be your _entire_ life. You are a man that cares for others. You relate to them, and you make friends quickly. It's a good skill to have."

Ezio flushes like a pupil being praised by an instructor. "But—"

"Make friends, Ezio," Altair says. "Surround yourself with people you care for, and that care for you."

"I will," Ezio says quietly. "And I hope I can count you as one of those people? That cares for me?"

Altair nods agreeably, and they wait out the rest of the night in silence, until the sun comes out and Altair rises to put out the fire. By the time he is ready to ride out, Ezio has vanished and Altair is alone.

(Except that no he's not, not really—he'll always have his visitors, even when they're not around)


	77. Chapter 77

Connor does not visit his father's grave as often as he should, but he does occasionally visit. It's become a more frequent occurrence since Aveline found Matthew there—it helps to have some good memories associated with the place.

He visits every winter. It's the season he most associates with his father, both because his father's birthday is in early December, and because they'd first met in person when there was snow on the ground and a chill in the air. It's not particularly pleasant, standing in the cold and staring at a grave, but that seems fitting too. He has wronged his father in the worst way imaginable. He deserves to be punished.

Most times when he visits his father, Connor goes alone. Once or twice he'd taken Matthew with him, but now that they're both assassins, they see far too little of each other. It doesn't make sense to have their limited time together marred by this kind of sadness.So this year, like the past several years before it, Connor goes alone. He stands in the silence of the graveyard, and watches the little patch of dirt that hides his father's remains. It is bitterly cold this year, so cold that the wind stings his face and makes his eyes water.

He feels the arrival of a visitor, and knows who it is by the strangled, pained gasp before he even turns around. So he doesn't. He stands absolutely still, as if frozen through, and stares at his father's grave. "Desmond," he says.

Desmond doesn't answer, but a moment later he's inched forward to kneel in front of the grave, and Connor can see Desmond shaking. It might just be the cold (Desmond is dressed in his regular T-shirt and thin hoodie, nowhere near enough to protect against the weather. But Connor doesn't think it's just the chill—Desmond's shoulders are hunched in genuine grief, and his breathing is fast and distressed.

" _Why_?" he demands. There are tears in his voice. "Why did you have to kill him?"

"Desmond—"

"And because you did it, I had to do it too! I had to—" he chokes on his words, and his shivering gets worse. "I had to do it over and over and _over_ again. I couldn't sync the memory, I didn't want to kill him! I didn't want to…" He gets to his feet, turning abruptly toward Connor and _pushing_ him, hard enough that Connor is surprised into stumbling backward, almost tripping over another grave. "I had to live that memory _thirty seven_ times, Connor! Thirty seven times, until there was so much of your hate in my head that I wanted him dead! How could you do that to him? To me?" He laughs, but it's a curiously un-Desmond laugh, almost mocking. "How could you do that to _yourself_?"

"Don't do this, Desmond," Connor says, when he can finally speak. "Please."

"I just—I still can't understand," Desmond goes on, ignoring Connor. "I spent an entire day reliving that memory, and I know you were angry, I know you hated him, but I still don't understand why you actually killed him. I don't—I can't…"

"I don't understand it either," Connor admits.

Desmond's eyes are tearing from more than just the wind. "You have to," he protests. "How could you kill him and not know _why_?"

"I just—in the moment it seemed like the only thing to do," Connor says. "But as soon as I'd done it, I knew it was a mistake. There was never a reason good enough to explain what I'd done."

"So it was just… senseless," Desmond says. "There was no reason, and it just…"

"I'm sorry," Connor says. "But you… you spent more time in that memory than I did. If I'd had a good reason, some explanation that would make all this alright, you would already know it."

"I didn't want to kill him," Desmond says again, miserably, and he looks so dejected, so completely frozen through and sad that Connor actually hugs him. The other man resists for a second, but he must be cold because he gives in and lets the hug happen. "I still can't believe you did that."

Connor shakes his head, because honestly, _honestly_ , neither can he. Instead of saying anything, he just holds Desmond until the younger man stops shivering, and his breathing calms. When Desmond's visit shows no sign of coming to an end, Connor suggests they move inside, and Desmond nods silently. He leans against Connor's side as they move, and Connor cannot quite bring himself to pull away. He settles his arm around Desmond instead, and hopes that this is comforting him somehow. Although he's not sure how it can, when Connor had killed… had _forced Desmond to kill_ the man he so obviously cares about.

Connor feels like a monster.


	78. Chapter 78

"Why don't you wear white?"

Aveline continues putting on her assassin's outfit as she considers Edward's question. This is an older Edward, far older than the man she's just starting to know through visits. He seems more mature as well (it would hard to be _less_ mature), and she's pretty sure he'd only looked once or twice when he helped her out of her lady's clothes.

He obviously hasn't grown out of his impatience though, because Edward doesn't wait for Aveline to finish thinking before he goes on talking. "I mean, assassins wear white, don't they? Altair wears white. Ezio wears white. Connor wears white. Even Desmond wears white. But you wear black. How come?"

"I—"

"Where do the robes even come from?" Edward goes on. "Is there a top secret assassin tailor hiding somewhere?"

Aveline does her best to hide her smile. What a completely _Edward_ question to ask. "I don't know about other places and times," she says. "But here and now we make do with what we can find. Our robes have to be made to last, so sometimes they're passed down. I didn't really have that option, so—"

"Why not?" Edward interrupts, and she gives him a _what, really?_ expression, eyebrows raised. He doesn't seem to get it.

"There's not a lot of other women in the brotherhood," Aveline explains. "I'm not going to run around in robes that were made for a man twice my size."

"So what did you do?" Edward asks. "Did you make them yourself?"

"I got different pieces from different shops," Aveline says. "Hat, trousers, boots. All the rest of it. And I ordered them at the same time as more innocent pieces of clothing."

"That sounds complicated," Edward says glumly.

"You mean you think it requires actual effort," Aveline corrects. "Why are you asking, anyway?"

For the first time, Edward looks like he doesn’t know what he wants to say. Aveline finishes pulling on her boots, and looks around for her hat. Edward's holding it, turning it over and over in his hands.

"Why is this suddenly so important?” Aveline asks, with more concern than she had felt for him before. Has she ever seen Edward worried before? It doesn't seem likely.

“My wife is pregnant,” Edward says.

“Caroline?”

Edward blinks at her, and for a moment he looks genuinely confused. “Does it count as spoilers if I'm telling you about my own life?” he asks.

“Does it count as _what_?”

“Never mind,” Edward says. “It's just a thing everyone keeps yelling at me for. Because I keep telling people things about their lives that they're not supposed to know yet, and if I tell you that Tessa is my second wife, that would be a spoiler. So I'm not going to.”

“Oh, Edward,” Aveline says, laughing again. He shakes his head and curses half heartedly.

"I'm awful at this,” Edward says. “When Tessa has the baby, it's going to ask me something like where to babies come from, and I'm just going to tell it. It'll be scarred for life.”

"No, Edward—" He hands her hat back to her and Aveline settles it onto her hair, pulling it low across her eyes. It's comfortable there, a little bit of security in a conversation where she doesn't understand the rules. This isn't like Edward. "Sit down. We can talk."

"Don't you have to go kill someone?" he asks.

"She can wait a while," Aveline says. "I'd rather help you."

"But—"

 She puts her hand on his shoulder and guides him into a chair. There's not much room in the changing booth, but there's enough. "Tell me why having a child makes you think about getting assassin's robes," she says. "Because honestly, I'm not seeing the connection there."

Edward flashes her a smile. It looks almost reflexive, like he's smiling out of habit instead of actual cheerfulness. "I want my son or my daughter to know about the assassins. And I don't want to be wearing the robes I stole from a dead man when I tell it about the brotherhood."

Aveline looks at him for a long time, considering. "You grew up," she says.

"Surprise."

"I think you're worrying too much about the robes," she decides, after recovering from the shock of learning that Edward will one day be capable of maturity. "Just be a good parent."

" _How_?" Edward demands. "I'm going to be around for this one, I can't mess it up!"

"This one?" Aveline echoes. "There's more than one?"

Edward makes a noise of frustration. "How do I keep doing that?"

Aveline bends over and hugs him. "You'll be a good parent," she says. "Only the good ones care."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously though. Who makes those complicated assassin robes?


	79. Chapter 79

Ratonhnhaké:ton's mother used to hug him and tell him stories to help him fall asleep at night. Now that she's dea… _dead_ , most nights Ratonhnhaké:ton just doesn't sleep. He lies apart from the people around him, and stares at the walls or the floors until dawn. He's tired all day, which is okay because no one expects anything from him. They let him just sit on the edge of the slowly rebuilding village and nod off and wake up and then repeat the same thing all day. Kanen'tó:kon sits next to him sometimes, but his mother thinks there's something wrong with Ratonhnhaké:ton, and calls him away whenever she sees him there. It's like she thinks Ratonhnhaké:ton's grief will spread to her son. Maybe she's right—Ratonhnhaké:ton feels sick with the sadness, he feels like he's going to throw up, his head hurts, his stomach hurts.

And he's never going to feel better, because his mother is the only one that can help when he doesn't feel good. What is he supposed to do?

Days and nights blur together into long stretches where he doesn't know for sure where he is or what's going on around him. People tell him where to go and he goes. They tell him to eat and he eats, and then most days he throws up. Ratonhnhaké:ton tries to do that in hidden corners, so no one will know. But he hears people talking about how he's getting skinny and sick.

"He's going to follow his mother soon," he hears one woman telling another. "He won't sleep, he won't eat, I'm sure he won't last long."

"It's a sad story," the other one says. "I always thought he was such a strong little boy."

They look at Ratonhnhaké:ton pityingly before moving away. But he doesn't feel like he needs pity. He feels excited for the first time since his mother died, because he never thought about that. If he dies, he can see his mother again. Then everything will be okay. She can take care of him again, he won't feel so sick all the time. Everything's going to be okay, everything…

He stops eating. Stops even trying to sleep. Ratonhnhaké:ton doesn't know how to die, apart from the way his mother did, but he's too scared of the fire to try that. So he has to wait.

And wait, and _wait_ , and he just feels worse all the time.

One night, when he's lying awake staring at the wall, a little baby, maybe two or three years old, just appears out of thin air right in front of him. Ratonhnhaké:ton blinks fuzzily at him, rubbing his heavy eyes. Why is there a baby? He touches the baby's head to check that he's real, and he _feels_ real. His hair is all yellow, it's a funny color for hair, and he's talking to himself in a giggly, bubbly way while he tries to shove his own foot into his mouth.

"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton says, pushing the baby's foot away. "No baby, feet aren't for eating."

But the baby only shrieks (not in a scared way or a mad way, he just sounds happy like he's having fun making noises) and claps his hands. Then he goes back to trying to eat his toes, and when Ratonhnhaké:ton pushes his foot away again, the baby seems to decide this is a game.

Well, too bad. Ratonhnhaké:ton doesn't want to play a game. He turns over and ignores the baby.

It turns out the baby doesn't want to be ignored. He makes a questioning noise, and kicks Ratonhnhaké:ton's shoulder. Then he does it again, and when Ratonhnhaké:ton still ignores him he wraps his arms around him and holds on tighter than Ratonhnhaké:ton knew a baby even could. "Play!" the baby demands. "Play foot!"

"No," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. He tries to push the baby away but he doesn't feel good still and the baby is clinging to him like he never wants to let go. "I don't wanna play."

"Play _foot_ ," the baby insists, and somehow he manages to contort his body so that he can put his foot in Ratonhnhaké:ton's face without ever letting up on the squeezing. His foot, not very surprisingly, smells really bad.

"Stop it!" Ratonhnhaké:ton whines.

"No!" the baby giggles. "No, no, _no_!"

"Yes!" Ratonhnhaké:ton insists. He manages to wiggle onto his back, which doesn't stop the baby from hugging him but does at least get his foot out of Ratonhnhaké:ton's face. The baby ends up sprawled on Ratonhnhaké:ton's chest, smiling down onto his face. He's heavier than Ratonhnhaké:ton had expected. Ratonhnhaké:ton frowns, doing his best to look severe. It's not hard, the way he feels right now. "No playing allowed," he insists.

This finally seems to get through to the baby. The smile shatters on his face, and he clutches at Ratonhnhaké:ton in sudden worry. "Why no play?" he demands.

"Because…" he's hungry and tired and sad. He's falling apart from the loss of his mother, and he hasn't played in a long, long time. He's thinking suddenly about how long it has been since he played, and he… wants to. But he doesn't, and it's confusing because he misses having fun and being happy but he also doesn't know how to start again. "Can I tell you a story instead?" he asks.

The baby nods, and Ratonhnhaké:ton starts to stumble through one of the stories his mother used to tell him to help him fall asleep. The baby doesn't make it past the very beginning, curling up on top of Ratonhnhaké:ton with his thumb in his mouth and his eyes shut, but Ratonhnhaké:ton keeps going. The story helps. It makes his mother feel not as far away as she had been before.

When the story is over, Ratonhnhaké:ton sighs and shuts his eyes, and sleeps.

He wakes up late the next morning, without the baby, and decides he wants to eat


	80. Chapter 80

Aveline does not cry often, but she's teary eyed on the day her oldest son gets married. Shay is smiling though, he so rarely smiles these days. He's old and getting sick—Aveline tries not to think about how little time he must have left. Especially on days like this.

"Congratulations," she tells Philippe in the aftermath, and he beams as he hugs her. It's an unusual display of affection—it's not that Philippe doesn't love his parents, but he's typically a little more reserved about showing it.

"Thank you," he says. "I'm so glad you like her."

"Your wife?" Aveline glances over at Philippe's new bride, a stern but sharply intelligent woman that compliments Philippe in every way possible. Her name is Mercy. "You love her, why wouldn't I like her?"

Philippe is all smiles as he looks back over at Mercy as well. "Well, she's outside this whole… thing that this family is involved in," he says. "I thought you might not like that." Assassins and templars, he means. Well, he always was the most... serious, of his siblings.

Aveline laughs. "Philippe," she says. "You have never once, in your entire life, expressed the _slightest_ interest in either the assassins or the templars. And that's fine. That's what makes you happy. You are…" she smiles and he grins back at her. "Philippe, your life would bore your brothers and sister to tears, but I know you have a passion for it. No matter how well you try to hide that you care. And now you've found a woman that can share that. I know you'll love her as much as your father and I love each other."

"Thanks," Philippe says.

"And hopefully you'll remember to _make_ love once in a while, too," Aveline adds, just to see the colors his face turns.

"Mother!" Philippe hisses. "Will you stop that?"

"No." She kisses him on the forehead. "Now go. Enjoy your party. Talk to your friends."

"They're _business associates_."

"Well talk to them anyway."

He's still smiling even as he rolls his eyes and walks away, Mercy joining him almost immediately.

Aveline is still watching them fondly when she hears Jeanne hiss, "You have to tell him!" at someone behind her. When she turns around, she sees Jeanne chasing after Matthew. They've always been close, her children and Connor's son, ever since Matthew came home. But Jeanne looks angry now. "Hey!" she says. "Hey!"

"What?" Matthew asks. He sounds exasperated, closed off, clearly unwilling to listen to whatever Jeanne is trying to tell him.

"You know what," Jeanne says. "You have to tell your dad what you just told me!"

"I don't have to tell him anything," Matthew says. "She doesn't want anything to do with him."

"My brother just married your sister," Jeanne says, and Aveline feels her whole body go stiff with the sudden shock of it. "Your sister is right over there." She points at Mercy. "And your father is right over there." She points over to where Connor and Shay are sitting together, talking quietly. "They have never met each other, and you're not even going to introduce them?"

"I don't know." Aveline risks a glance over her shoulder to see that Rory has wandered over with a plate of food. "There's one or two family members I'd like to disassociate myself from, if I had the chance.

"Rory," Jeanne protests, sounding hurt.

"I don't like templars," he says flatly.

"Well sorry for having a different opinion from you," Jeanne mutters. "But I would want to meet you if we'd never known each other. Even though you'd obviously just say mean things."

"I'd say nice things if you weren't a templar."

"Rory," Matthew protests.

"Come on, Matthew," Rory protests. "You're an assassin too, you've killed templars."

"The kind that deserved it, not the ones that do the right thing like Jeanne or your dad."

Rory looks sadly at Jeanne. "I just want to protect you," he says. "Why don't you get that?"

"Because—" she sighs and shakes her head. "Never mind. I don't want to have this argument again. We're talking about Matthew right now."

"No," Matthew groans, but Jeanne ignores him.

"Why won't you just tell your dad he can meet his daughter?"

"Because… she never knew him," Matthew says. "All she ever had were the stories mom told us, and I don't remember her ever saying nice things about him. The only reason I didn't end up hating dad too is..." he pauses a moment. "Well, you know."

"You mean because you remember your dad from before your mom moved you?" Jeanne asks.

"Sure," Matthew says. "Sure, that's why. But Mercy..."

"Okay," Jeanne says. "Fine, so she doesn't want to meet him. But what if  _he_ wants to meet  _her?_ "

"I don't know," Matthew mutters. "I don't know! I mean, have you met Mercy? Have you actually talked to her?"

"Sure," Jeanne says. "She seems… nice."

"Do you think she seems like the kind of person that would be happy she's marrying into a family full of assassins and templars?"

"No," Rory says. "She's marrying Philippe, and I've never met anyone more ordinary than he is."

"Well I guess it's up to you what you do," Jeanne says doubtfully. "I mean, I'm not going to get in the middle of your family stuff."

"Me neither," Rory says.

"Wow," Matthew says, in an obvious attempt to change the subject. "The two of you actually agree? I've known you both for years, and I can count on one hand how many times you've agreed."

The three of them move away from Aveline, out of earshot, and she sighs. What is she supposed to do with what she's just heard? Most of the time, she just forgets that Connor even has a daughter, but… Emily had been pregnant when she took Matthew and walked out. What are the chances that she would come back into their lives now, like this?

She's so lost in thought that the rest of the day is kind of a blur. She eventually realizes it's late, and that almost everyone has left. Aveline scans the area around her for Connor (she must have done that half a hundred times already today—she does it now without really thinking). When she sees him talking to Philippe and Mercy, Aveline drops what she's doing and does her best casual-but-not-really walk over to them.

She doesn't hear most of the conversation, because it's just wrapping up as she gets close. "Congratulations, again," Connor says in his calm, serious tone.

"Thank you," Philippe says.

"It was very nice to meet you," Mercy adds, and she sounds polite enough that Aveline assumes that Matthew has (true to his word) managed to avoid his sister for the past several hours. "Philippe tells me he's known you a long time."

"Since the day he was born," Connor says. Philippe turns red.

"Maybe now isn't the time to talk about all that—"

"No embarrassing stories from your childhood?" Mercy teases gently.

Philippe stutters and blushes a deeper red—Connor apparently takes pity on him, because he only smiles softly and shakes his head. "No," he says. "He's always been a very serious, responsible person. He was sailing little merchant ships full of coffee around when his brother was turning them into pirate ships."

"My kind of man," Mercy says, and for a moment she and Philippe are so lost in each other that they seem utterly unaware of the rest of the world around them. Then she seems to snap out of it, and turns back to Connor with a faint blush of her own lighting up her face. "Well, if you're a friend to my husband—" she says the word in that particular way new wives do, lingering over each sound, relishing the feel of it. "Then I'm sure we'll get along well."

"We'll visit," Philippe promises. "All my siblings and I were born at the homestead, after all, and we're hoping to start a family of our own soon." He reaches for his wife's hand without looking, and they tangle their fingers together. Connor makes some polite comment, and leaves the newlyweds alone. He heads in Aveline's general direction, and stops when he sees the look on her face.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Aveline says. "It's just…" she can't say anything though, can she? Jeanne and Rory are right, this isn't their family, it's not their place to get involved. And besides—telling Connor that the woman he'd just spoken to is his daughter could ruin things between them, especially if Mercy's mother had taught her to hate her father. At least this way… they can know one another.

"Just what?" Connor prompts.

"Nothing, really," Aveline assures him. "I just can't believe Philippe's married already. He's making me feel old."

Connor nods sympathetically, and Aveline changes the subject as quickly as she can.


	81. Chapter 81

"I think I could afford it," Ezio says, standing back and contemplating the building in front of him. "What do you think?"

"Afford what?" Connor asks.

"This."

Connor looks where Ezio is looking, then back at him. "I am not sure what you want to buy," he says carefully.

"All of it," Ezio says.

"What, the _building_?" Connor demands, and Ezio counts the horror in his visitor's voice as a minor victory.

"Yes," Ezio says. "Sure, why not?"

"It's the colosseum," Connor hisses, as if there's some possible way Ezio could have missed this fact. "Ezio!"

"What?"

"You cannot _buy_ the colosseum!"

Ezio grins. "Well now I really want to," he says.

"Ezio!"

"Well why not?"

"It's a famous landmark," Connor says. "It's been around for centuries. And why would you want to, anyway?"

Ezio shrugs. "Well, I've bought other stuff before. Stables and shops and things."

"There's a big difference between a shop and—and this."

"I'm going to buy it," Ezio decides cheerfully, and grins when Connor groans.

"What—are you expecting to make money off this investment?" Connor asks.

"Eh," Ezio says.

"Eh?" Connor repeats. _"Eh?_ What is that supposed to mean, eh?"

Ezio shrugs.

Connor stares at him for a long time, then shakes his head and turns around. "I give up," he says. "You are an impossible man."

Later, when Ezio actually  _does_ buy the colosseum, he climbs up to the top and scratches TO CONNOR FROM EZIO on the wall, on the extremely slim chance that Connor will ever see it.

-//-

Hundreds of years later, Desmond pauses on the top of a construction crane. There's an ancient bit of graffiti on the wall here that's unexpectedly caught his attention.

TO CONNOR FROM EZIO

Great. Now his hallucinations are gifting giant landmarks to each other.

"What the fuck..." Desmond groans.

"What?" Rebecca says, her voice crackling through his earpiece.

"Never mind," Desmond sighs. "Just..."  _My hallucinations are crazier than I am._ "Nothing."


	82. Chapter 82

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Philippe and Jeanne are named for Aveline's parents. Following this trend, I sort of wondered where Rory and Tomas's names might have come from. Or I guess just Tomas, in this case.

Shay's mother is supposed to be having a baby. A little brother or sister to play with and take care of. But…

 _Something_ is wrong. Shay kneels on his bed, ear pressed to the wall, and listens as his mother's screaming fades into sad noises and then to silence. He doesn't hear a baby, and when the crying starts, it's coming from his mother.

Shay's father comes in, and Shay falls onto his bed, shutting his eyes and forcing himself to breathe slowly like he's asleep. "Hey," his father says quietly. "Up you get, Shay, I know you're faking."

Shay opens his eyes and sits up—he doesn't get a chance to do anything else before his father lifts him into his lap and hugs him so tight that Shay thinks he might burst. "What's wrong?" he asks. "What's _wrong_? Where's the baby?"

"He didn't make it," his father says.

"But where did he go?" Shay asks. "He was supposed to come here! He was supposed to play with me!"

"He went… somewhere better," his father says. "Somewhere that he'll be very loved, and he'll never want for anything."

"But he didn't want to come here?" Shay whimpers. "Didn't he want to play with me?"

"I'm sure…" Shay's father is crying, just like his mother is crying in the other room. "I'm sure he wanted that very much, Shay. But… he had to go away. Just like I have to go away sometimes."

"On the ship," Shay says. He goes quiet for a little while, then says, "What was his name?"

"Tomas," his father tells him.

"Tomas," Shay repeats.

He falls asleep leaning against his father, trying to think of where Tomas might have had to go, instead of coming here to play with him. Maybe he's on a ship like father's. That would be the best, because father always seems to like the sea. He comes home happy, whistling and bringing Shay presents.

He has a dream, or thinks he does. It feels a lot more real than a dream, but when Shay wakes up he's on a ship. And he knows that must be a dream because Tomas is the one on the ship, not him. Tomas is the one that went away…

Shay picks himself off the deck, shivering, and looks around when a woman calls his name. She's old like his mother, or maybe even older. She's holding a boy on her lap, and smiling at Shay over the top of his head. "You are Shay, aren't you?" she asks, when Shay has stumbled closer. He isn't used to the way the ship lurches and sways under his feet.

"Yes," he says, in a voice that sounds very thin and high under the sound of the sea around them. He is vaguely aware of other people on the ship, crewmembers around the sails and children running up and down the deck. But only the woman and the little boy interest Shay right now, so he sort of stumbles toward them. "Where are we?"

"We're on a ship," Aveline tells him, as Shay sways and stumbles against her. She locks one arm more firmly around her baby, and then puts the other hand on Shay's shoulder to keep him from falling again. "My husband is sailing our family home." She gestures to the far away back of the ship, where the wheel is.

"Who are you?" Shay asks.

"My name's Aveline," she tells him. "This is Tomas."

"Really?" Shay demands. "It's really Tomas?"

She nods, and although she looks slightly confused by his reaction Shay is _ecstatic_. So his father had been right, Tomas had gone somewhere better to be taken care of and loved. "You _do_ love him, right?" he asks Aveline aloud. "Lots and lots?"

"Of course."

"And he has people to play with him?"

"Two brothers and a sister." 

"Then it's all okay," Shay says, swaying a little on his feet again. But this time, it's as much from relief as it is the movement of the ship. Tomas is taken care of and loved and happy. "Everything is okay."


	83. Chapter 83

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This continues on from Philippe and Mercy's wedding from a few chapters ago

"You shouldn't argue with mom so much."

Matthew looks up at Mercy, and then away again. "She's wrong," he says. "She's wrong about dad."

"You were four when mom took you away from him," Mercy says skeptically. "How much can you really remember about him?"

Matthew sighs and leans against the tree. "I remember he was a big guy," he said. "He gave the best hugs—not a lot, but when he did hug you, you knew that you were safe. I remember he used to get up early and play with me when mom was still sleeping."

"What about when he cut your finger off?" Mercy asks. "Do you remember that?"

"He didn't cut my finger off," Matthew says.

"Not technically, no," Mercy says. "But he killed people for a living and left swords lying around. I think he's pretty much to blame."

"It's not about blame, Mercy," Matthew says. "It's about… I don't know. But sometimes these things just happen. I don't get why I'm the only one that's not mad."

"I guess because you're the crazy one," Mercy says. "You're too forgiving for your own good, that's the problem."

"Really?" Matthew's mouth twitches up in a smile. "I'm too  _ merciful _ , maybe?"

"Shut up," Mercy says, punching him in the shoulder. But she's nine and a girl so her punch doesn't hurt much. "I'm just saying, you could try holding a grudge once in a while."

"Why bother? You and mom seem to have that covered."

Mercy sighs and leans next to him on the wall. "I guess it's a good thing," she says. "I know you'll always be there for me. Even if we fight."

"Yep," Matthew agrees. "I'm not mad at dad, and I wouldn't be mad at you no matter what happened between us. I mean—you annoy me sometimes, I'll be honest. But you're my sister and I love you."

"So even though you and mom are fighting, you still love her too?" Mercy asks.

Matthew nods. "But I still love dad, so I can't sit there and let her tell lies about him."

Mercy sighs. "Well, I don't think mom would just lie to us. She's our mom! She takes care of us."

"She got hurt," Matthew says. "She's human."

"And I'd rather have her than a dad like ours any day," Mercy says, in a tone of absolute finality. "Now can you at least make an effort to get along with mom better? She's trying."

"So did dad," Matthew mutters.

-//-

"Matthew?"

He speeds up, looking around the quickly emptying wedding party for someone else to talk to, anyone but his little sister. It's no good though, the only person he recognizes is Tomas, and he looks way too drunk for a decent conversation.

"Matthew!" Mercy calls again. "Matthew, come on!"

He turns around and manages to produce something like a smile and an enthusiastic greeting. Mercy hugs him tight and then steps back, studying him. "Hey," Matthew says weakly.

"Hey yourself," Mercy says. "I haven't seen you in years! What are you doing here?"

"I came to see the wedding," Matthew says. "I've known your husband's family for years."

"What a coincidence," Mercy says. "I'm so glad…" she hugs him again. "I missed you."

"I missed you too," Matthew says, more slowly. "But you moved after mom died. You sent me a letter saying she was dead, and I—you sounded so  _ angry _ ."

"I was angry," Mercy admits. "I was upset, I was hurt, I was… confused. I didn't know how to deal with mom dying by myself."

"Sorry," Matthew whispers.

"Hey," Mercy says. "We're together now. I think." She grins like she's teasing him. "You look like you're a million miles away."

"Sorry," he says again. He's thinking about how on Earth he's going to keep Mercy from finding out about their dad, because he can't think of any way to ruin this family faster than that. He changes the subject. "Tell me about Philippe. How did you meet him?"

Her face melts into a smile. Matthew has never seen his little sister this happy. "I stayed with a friend after mom died," she says. "I was only going to stay a little while, and then go find you, but… my friend's father owned ships. It was interesting, and I think I could help him sometimes. I'm good with figures."

"I know," Matthew says. "I remember."

"So I stayed," Mercy says. Pride creeps into her voice. "I  _ earned  _ my keep. And then I met Philippe, he chartered cargo space on one of the ships my friend's father owned. He… was there. I don't remember exactly when he stopped coming by on business and started coming to see me, but I… I was so happy."

Matthew hugs her. He can't  _ not _ , when she's looking at him like that. She's still his sister, all complications aside. Matthew would walk through fire to see her happy. "You know I love you, right?" he asks. "Even though we argue, and neither of us has been great about keeping in touch, you know I love you."

"Of course," Mercy says, and she sounds genuinely surprised that he has to ask. "I love you too, brother. Come see me sometime?"

"As often as I can," he promises.

-//-

Days after the wedding, when Matthew is with his father and preparing to ride back to the homestead, his father taps him on the back.

"Hmm?" Matthew says.

"What's wrong?" his father asks. "You look worried."

"I'm just tired," Matthew says, not quite looking at him.

"Ah."

Matthew mounts his horse and then looks back—his father is still on the ground, holding his own horse's reins. "I noticed… you seem very close with Philippe's new wife," his father says. Everything about him, his face, his voice,  _ everything _ , is reluctant as he says it.

"I—I've met her before," Matthew says. "Years ago. Before I came home."

"You know she's… that is—Matthew, you do know she's married."

Matthew stares at him, uncomprehending. "Of course I do," he says. "We were both just at the wedding. Why—" he almost falls off his horse. "Dad, do you think we were  _ together _ ?"

"I saw you hugging her," his father says. "And I know you, Matthew, you don't hug just anyone like that. You're not a hugging person."

"We were friends," Matthew says. "We were very close friends, but…" He hesitates, tipping on the brink of telling his father the truth. Then he shakes his head, pulls back. No. No, he can't let either of them know. Not his father, not Mercy. They can never know they're related. Mercy is too stubborn. And Matthew thinks it might kill his father to see his daughter reject him.

"Just friends?" his father asks.

Matthew lets out a little breath. "Yes," he says. "Just friends. That's all we ever were."

 


	84. Chapter 84

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot recommend strongly enough that you read [Homecoming Chapter 29](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5599084/chapters/13472542) before reading this.

A year after Starrick's death, Evie wakes (or thinks she does) feeling ill. It feels like something is curling tightly in her stomach, a sick, twisting feeling that something bad is about to happen. She sits up, reaching for Henry's hand, and holds it tightly. Something is wrong, _something is wrong_. "Henry," she whispers, squeezing him still more tightly. "Henry, please wake up."

**_'he won't wake'_ **

The words seem to come from all around her, echoing from the walls and within her head at the same time. "Why not?" she demands. "Who are you? _Where_ are you?"

A feeling like laughter in her head, and then—

**_'he won't wake because he is not here'_ **

No sooner has the voice made its announcement than Evie feels her hand close suddenly around thin air. She looks down and there is no one there, and then she looks up and there is nothing there either. Just empty white space, and a booming voice echoing into and around (and around and _around_ ) her head. "What did you do with him?" she demands. "What did you do with my husband?"

**_'what husband?'_ **

"My…" she stumbles and stops, terror coursing through her. She can't remember his name. She can see his face in her mind but his name… why can't she remember his name? "What are you doing to _me_?"

**_'a much better question'_ **

The voice sounds almost approving, a proud teacher. It reminds Evie of the way her father had sounded whenever she'd mastered a particularly difficult concept. The comparison is not one she wants. "Then answer it," she says. Silence rings in the empty, open space. Evie is breaking—and it's not just the fear and the anger, there is something inside her breaking apart and melting away. She opens her mouth and screams at the top of her lungs, voice cracking as she does so. "Answer me, you freak!"

Her voice echoes impossibly—there is nothing for the sound to bounce off, but the sound of her own voice comes rushing back toward her, almost mockingly ( _you freak, freak, freak…_ ).

**_'a friend of yours asked a favor of me, he promised payment'_ **

"A friend? Who?"

**_'it doesn't matter'_ **

"But—"

**_'you won't remember him'_ **

Only because she has no friends. How could she? She has lived in small towns her whole life, devoted all her time to training to be an assassin. The voice could be referring to Jacob, but Evie definitely remembers her brother. Not that she'd really call him a friend. More of an annoyance. "I don't understand," she says. "What… what don't I remember?"

**_'so, so much, Evie Frye'_ **

She falls gracelessly to the ground, clutching at her head. It's throbbing now. "What?" she whispers.

**_'London… visitors… Henry Green… the Rooks...these memories are the payment I choose'_ **

"None of that means anything," Evie protests. "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know, I don't…" She laughs, even though she’s terrified. “I’ve never even _been_ to London!” She’s on her way to Croydon to kill David Brewster, but that’s a far cry from _London_...

**_'sleep, Evie Frye'_ **

"Sleep," she echoes. Her limbs are heavy, and she has to fight to keep her eyes open. What is she doing here…? And why… why is she so worried? Why…?

She sleeps.

**_'the price is paid'_ **

"Evie?"

She wakes with her back pressed against cobblestone and smoke choking at her lungs. Jacob is leaning over her, and he looks terrified. "Jacob, what—" she tries to get up but sags sideways, coughing and choking against smoke. Jacob is patient, holding her until she is breathing normally again. "What happened?"

"Brewster's laboratory exploded," he says.

"I…" images trickle back into her mind. "I remember," she says. "It was the apple, he was doing experiments." On her second try she manages to get up, but stumbles almost immediately. Jacob reaches out to grab her shoulder, but Evie shakes her head. "I'm fine," she insists. " _Fine_ , Jacob."

"It's been twelve hours since the explosion," Jacob says. "I was worried when you didn't come back."

"Or you came to gloat," Evie mutters. "I bet your mission went perfectly."

"Well—I mean, the target's dead."

"Of course he is," Evie says. "Everything always falls so perfectly into place for you." Shame is clawing its way through her. How could she not have got away in time? She should have been faster, she should have outrun the explosion.

"Are you angry with me for doing well?" Jacob asks. "I did crash a train over a cliff, if that helps."

"No," she mutters. "It—I just need to rest."

"Come on," Jacob says. "Let's get back to George."

Evie nods without looking at him.

He takes her to a train just about to leave, and as it hurtles back the way they'd come, Evie finds herself leaning against a wall, poring over her journal. Her mind drifts, and she doesn't realize how much time has passed until Jacob shakes her roughly. "Hey," he says. "Evie, come on—we're getting off here."

"Great."

"Who's Henry?"

"What?"

"Henry." Jacob points at her journal and Evie jerks in abrupt surprise. The whole page is filled with the same name, over and over again. _Henry_.

"I didn't write that," Evie says.

"It's your writing," Jacob says. "In your journal. I know you think you're the smart twin—"

"I _am_ the smart twin."

"But it doesn't take a genius detective to work out who wrote all that." He grins. "Is there something you want to tell me about? Or… someone?"

"No," Evie insists. She snaps her journal shut and stuffs it into a pocket, then stands up so she can put her back to Jacob. "I swear, I don't remember writing that. It must be… I must have hit my head in the explosion. I'll get a good night's sleep and everything will be fine again."

"Sure," Jacob says quietly, but he doesn't sound certain.

They leave the train and Evie lets Jacob run ahead to find George. She leans against the wall of a building and closes her eyes. It doesn't feel like she's hit her head, it… it feels like there's a big, empty hole there, like something's missing.

 _Henry_.

No. No, there is no Henry. Evie honestly can't remember ever meeting a Henry before. For some reason that makes her lonely, she has never felt so lonely in her entire life. There's something she's missing (Henry…? No, _no_ , not Henry, there is no Henry, _there has never been a Henry_ ), and she can't… she can't remember for the life of her what it is.

Maybe she can’t remember anything


	85. Chapter 85

Haytham is being hunted, and there is nothing he can do to stop it. He knows this, with a cold certainty that itches along the back of his skull, knows it by the still foreign sensation of being visited. There is an assassin tied to him, silent and invisible and terrifyingly untouchable. Haytham knows by now that that any attempt to harm a visitor will only result in an identical hurt being inflicted on his own body.

Haytham is not sure which visitor is stalking him, although he suspects it is Altair. There is a kind of single mindedness to this hunt that certainly fits the ancient assassin’s style well enough. He has stalked Haytham halfway across Boston already, and shows no sign of giving in any time soon.

Just to be sure, he looks up and around in eagle vision. Yes—there is the distinctive glow of eagle vision, disturbingly blue. Blue! Why blue? Even now, Haytham is monumentally irritated that his second sight is _lying_ to him. Altair is not, has never been, _will never be_ , his ally. He is an assassins and an enemy, and Haytham's life is in danger ever second they spend visiting one another.

As if on cue, Haytham's silent follower leaps from a nearby rooftop. Haytham manages to avoid the man (he is close enough now to see it is indeed Altair), but then Altair lunges forward, blades outstretched, and Haytham has to kick him back. Not too hard—he doesn't want to wake up tomorrow with the bruises he gives Altair now.

Altair retreats back to the rooftops, out of sight, and Haytham tries not to show how tense he is growing. At first, Altair's constant attacks and hasty retreats had been merely annoying. But he is sure, now, that Altair means to kill him, and Haytham has a hundred distractions around him—he cannot watch the streets and keep his eyes on Altair at the same time. The man is a master assassin, after all. If he does not want to be seen, he won't be…

Haytham turns one corner, then another. He climbs to the roofs, runs along another street, then jumps back down to ground level. Always, _always_ , Altair is there. The assassin is relentless in his pursuit, and vicious in his attacks. He is a silent, constant shadow, and soon Haytham is bleeding and bruised from Altair's attacks. Worse still, Altair is as well. Haytham is trying not to hurt him too badly, but if he doesn't fight back Altair will kill him.

And then—

Haytham reels back as Altair vanishes, visit over. He sinks to his knees, suddenly aware of the dozens of wounds that have appeared all over his body, the ones he'd given Altair. Combined with the injuries Altair had given to him, he is now covered in cuts and bruises. None of them are too deep or too dangerous, but taken together…

Haytham groans and grits his teeth against the pain of it.

 _Damn_ visiting. He hates it, he hates everything it does to him, the pointless, senseless pain of fights like this one. What does either of them hope to accomplish? To kill each other? Does Haytham really expect he can hurt Altair's brotherhood, and does it really matter to Altair what Haytham does hundreds of years in his future?

But they keep fighting, because what else are assassins and templars supposed to do with each other?


	86. Chapter 86

Owen wakes up.

He takes a breath, and stretches his senses across the full extent of animus island. It's a long, slow mental gesture, a bit like stretching. The animus is a part of him, every bit as much as the false body he wears here. Every blade of grass, every drop of water, they're all him. Owen sends his mind sweeping out across the island, looking in on his wards.

There are fifty-nine of them there at the moment, forty-one men, sixteen women, and two unknowns. If Owen didn't have other concerns, he might be curious why there are so many more men than women suffering from the bleeding effect. Maybe the women resist it better, or maybe there are just less of them using helix. Just a weird statistical quirk, the kind of thing Owen likes to keep track of. He likes the numbers, the way they change over time. Maybe he worked with numbers in his old life. Before the animus, before he was Owen, before he was Subject One, even. He likes to think that it's some part of who he used to be coming back.

He jerks himself out of his distraction as one of his wards starts to stir. One of the new arrivals that Owen hasn't had a chance to introduce himself to yet. He lets his body vanish from the beach where he likes to sleep, and rematerializes feet away from the new kid.

Not a kid, probably. But when they first arrive they're formless, little shifting patches of broken code and breaking memory. Shimmering, unreal people that don't fully belong here, but don't quite fit in the real world anymore either. Owen calls them his kids because they're helpless and confused when they wake up for the first time. They need comfort and reassurances; they need to be held. Like kids.

This one stirs, flickering uncertainly between forms. Owen recognizes two or three of the most popular helix subjects, mixed up with some less familiar features. None of the forms stick long enough to really register, and Owen can't even tell if the new kid is male or female. He won't know that until they're well enough to tell him themselves.

The new kid jerks and moans, then sits up with a cry, shouting out in what sounds like French. Owen is proud of the fact that he no longer has enough of Aveline in his head to understand. "Hey," he says, reaching forward to take the new kid's hands. "Hey, kid. Hey. Calm down, okay? You're safe here, I promise. I  _ promise _ , there is nothing and no one that can hurt you here."

The new kid goes quiet, still flickering between forms, head tilted down to look at Owen's hands holding theirs. Then they lean forward against Owen's chest, shrinking down until they fit there perfectly. The island responds to need, and the way people look is determined as much by what they  _ want  _ and what they  _ need _ as what is actually true. Owen wraps his arms around the kid and lets them cry. It takes a while, but Owen is used to this, and after all he has nothing but time. When the crying stops, he says, "Do you know who you are?"

"N-no." The words are soft, but at least they're in English now. Owen can use the animus to translate, but it's way easier when his kids just speak English to begin with. "Too many people. Too many, I'm only supposed to be one."

"You are just one," Owen says. "And we'll find out who that someone is, I promise."

"What is this place?" the new kid asks. "Who are you?"

"My name's Owen," Owen says.

"Owen…?"

"I'm going to help you remember who you are."

The new kid clutches at him all the more tightly. "How?"

"Look around." Owen shifts so that he can gesture to all of the island without letting go of the new kid. "This place is designed to help people like you remember themselves. Right now, you have a real body out there somewhere. Now what happened was you logged into helix—you remember helix, right?"

The new kid nods and then flinches, like the memory physically hurts.

"So you logged in, and your brain… just couldn't handle being two different people at once. It mixed up all the different people you pretended to be in the animus with the person you actually are. Some friends of mine set up a filter to find people like you, and as soon as your mind broke, they sent it here."

"What about my body?" the new kid asks.

"In a coma," Owen answers. "You don't have to worry. You'll wake up as soon as the helix equipment comes off, or you put yourself back together."

"What if I wake up and I still don't know who I am?"

"Well," Owen says. "My friend—his name's Clay, he stops by sometimes so you might get to meet him—he's been putting information out that it's not safe to remove the equipment when people pass out in helix. Writing fake academic articles and medical reports—doctors will be too scared to pull you out until you're better, don't worry."

"Don't worry," the new kid whispers. "I don't want to worry."

"You don't have to," Owen promises. He pulls the new kid to their feet and holds their hand while as they start walking toward the shore. "Let me show you around the island, okay?"

"Okay, Owen."

The others are starting to wake. Owen can feel them stirring all around him, he can feel his island coming to life. He steers the new kid toward some of the little clusters of other recovering bleeding effect subjects, and introduces the ones he can. Some of the people on the island have remembered their own names, and they trip over themselves to tell the new kid. They shout good naturedly over one another, bursting to tell everyone who they are. The new kid smiles bashfully, half hiding behind Owen, so Owen takes them away. A little farther along, they run into some of the others. These are people that have been here long enough for Owen to know them, but not long enough to remember their own names. Most of them have nicknames, little monikers to give them as much individuality as they can muster.

"Owen!" One of the others, the second newest now, beams at him. "Owen, guess what!"

"What?"

"I remembered," they tell him, all smiles and good cheer. "I'm a girl, Owen!"

"Good for you, kid," Owen says, and he smiles and gives her a high five while something in him breaks. She'd said girl, not woman—she's a kid. Most people know to keep kids away from Helix, they actually read the warnings on the damn box, but some parents…

"She looks like a man," the new kid tells him in a whisper when the others have gathered around the girl to congratulate her. "How can she be a girl?"

"Bleeding," Owen sighs. "Bleeding, bleeding, bleeding. Just like you, kid. Just like all of us."

"Oh. But she's… she's getting better, right?"

"Definitely," Owen says. "And so will you."

The new kid pulls themselves away from Owen eventually, and Owen walks around the island, checking on things, making sure everyone's alright. There are one or two quiet crises to resolve (a man called George that had been doing  _ really  _ well starts bleeding again, and two others bleeding the same person almost get into a fight over who is the real version). But Owen is used to things like this, and he's just finishing his rounds when Desmond arrives—Owen recognizes him at once from the disruption in the code, the unusual feeling of someone sane intruding on the island.

But it's Desmond, he'd helped Owen and he knows what it's like to bleed, so Owen teleports himself to Desmond instantly.

"Owen!" Desmond takes a step back, startled at the other man's sudden appearance, but grins. "Wow, man—you look great."

"I feel great," Owen says. "Happy."

"I'm glad," Desmond says. "I really am. And I thought you might want to get out of here."

"Out?" His gut lurches. "Leave the island?"

"Clay has a body now," Desmond tells him. "A real, flesh and blood body. Ezio and Edward did something stupid and helped him out."

Owen laughs, an involuntary snort that he knows sounds stupid. He knows he must look and sound… so,  _ so _ stupid to Desmond. Because Desmond is fixed, Desmond has a real body in the real world. He's just here visiting. Not like Owen, and every time he visits Owen starts tripping over himself, nervous and jealous and stupid. When he's with his kids, Owen knows what he's doing, and he knows he's doing it  _well_. But with normal people like Desmond, or even like Clay (who is maybe not as sane as Desmond but still better off than Owen), he trips over his tongue, messes up and says the wrong thing over and over again.

Desmond either doesn't notice or doesn't comment. "Anyway," he goes on, "Clay was using this little drone body to fly around in, but obviously he doesn't need it anymore and I wondered if you might want it. We can move your data out of the animus and into that, get you back into the real world."

"You want to get me out of here," Owen says, disbelieving. "You really do?"

"Yes," Desmond says. "I have a daughter, Owen." The pride in his voice is unmistakable. "Her name's Elena, she's not quite three and she's…" he trails off, grinning. "Well, I could talk about her forever. But I'd love for you to meet her."

"I'd love that too," Owen says. "But…" he smiles and pats Desmond on the back. "Only if I can come back to the animus."

Desmond frowns at him. "You want to come here? You… want to stay?"

"I help people here," Owen says. "I do real good, more than I could ever do in the real world. People need me here. And I'm dead. What would I do in the real world?"

"Well I mean…" Desmond doesn't look disappointed or upset, just surprised. "It's your choice, Owen. If you want to stay, you can."

He thinks about being free. But he's already free, he has his island, he has his kids. "I want to meet your daughter, Desmond. And see Clay again, I want to see his new body. But then I want to come back."

"Whatever you want," Desmond says. He hugs Owen quickly. "You are happy here, aren't you?"

Owen nods. "But as long as you're here, do you… do you want to meet  _ my  _ kids?"

"I'd love to," Desmond says, and Owen grins as he takes Desmond deeper into the island. So maybe Desmond is all the way sane, maybe he has a life in the real world. Owen has a life too.


	87. Chapter 87

Desmond is ready to leave the Farm.

His father tells him he will die if he leaves, and Desmond believes him. Because Desmond is bad at everything. He's not a survivor. Desmond has never been anything but a scared little boy, just like his father tells him. The world is a rough place for assassins, and Desmond… will never be able to run far or fast enough to escape that.

But the Farm is full of danger too, it's full of his _father_. It's full of the threat of what he will do if he's upset, what taunts he'll throw at Desmond, how hard he'll hit in training matches, how _disappointed_ he'll be when Desmond messes up again and again. That's what hurts the most because despite everything, Desmond aches for a father. He just wants to be told that he's done good (that _he's_ good).

It's never going to happen. Desmond is sixteen, finally old enough to realize that he's never going to magically wake up with a father that loves him. So what's the point in staying? It doesn't matter what's waiting for him outside the Farm, as long as it's not his dad. Maybe he'll have the chance to see something amazing before the templars get him, go somewhere exciting, do something different. Something… something that won't make him a better assassin or a tougher person. Something just for fun. Maybe he can make a friend? It's only a matter of time before the templars track him down (because he's no good at stealth, no good at running or fighting, either, he's not good enough to survive on his own in the world), but until that happens… why can't he make friends?

The plan comes together in flashes, little bursts of inspiration that strike him as he goes through his normal routine. Desmond gets stuck working with the old men in charge of the Farm's supplies a lot. It's supposed to be a punishment, but they're the ones that show him what he'll need to take with him. At night, when he sits by his window wishing he could sleep, he watches where people move and when, and he finds the holes where no one is watching. Bit by bit, piece by piece, things come together. Desmond almost doesn't realize he actually means to go through with this plan until the night he finds himself packing his bag and opening the window to climb out. His father is in Austria on a mission, he won't be back for days, his mother is asleep. He won't have a better chance at this for a long, long time.

His heart is hammering in his chest and he can't quite catch his breath. Why is he doing this? He should be terrified, he _is_ terrified. But then he blinks and he's practically at the edge of the Farm. There is nothing here, no fence or wall like there are in other areas. Just a natural break in the ground, a steep incline with a muddy river at the bottom. Desmond stops at the edge, teetering on the brink, so _close_ to freedom he only has to step forward and take it. He edges forward, until his toes peek over the edge.

He holds his breath. Just for a moment. The air is still and silent, cold but with just a hint of spring in the smell of it.

Desmond does not so much jump as tumble down the edge, scrambling gracelessly across the river (but why not? There is no one to see, no one to tell him he's doing it wrong, and Desmond feels a sudden surge of excitement because _if he does this_ , if he gets safely away, he will have finally proved that there is something he can do right).

But when he gets to the other side, there is an equally steep incline waiting for him. Desmond tries, he really does, but—he's never been any good at climbing. He sags down, sitting with his back against the hard wall of rock that he _cannot_ climb no matter how hard he tries, and buries his head in his hands. So much for his great escape. In the morning, they'll find him here, trapped at the bottom of a rock wall no more than twice his height, failed and shamed. Desmond can already picture exactly what will happen. Someone will come by around dawn. The guards change at dawn, and the morning shift is always more attentive than the night watch.

Desmond isn't sure whose turn it to stand watch this morning, but he can picture with absolute certainty the look on their face. First, disbelieving surprise. They'll do a double take, squinting down the ravine to check if they've seen things correctly. Then will come that particular kind of smirk when they realize that _yes,_ it is the mentor's son stuck at the bottom. God, how many times has he seen that smirk? They'll call down to him, feigning concern, asking if he needs help so they can hear him admit that he's failed.

Then they'll send the very youngest novices down to help him back up. They won't have any trouble of course, because even kids half his age can climb better than Desmond can. And eventually they'll look in his bags, at the things he's packed, and someone will figure out he'd been trying to run.

Everyone will laugh—

Desmond chokes back a sob. Why can't he do _anything_ right? It's going to be so awful going back, they're going to hold this over his head forever, no one will ever let him forget.

Someone tugs gently on his arm, and Desmond flinches away, looking up to see the dim outline of a man. It's pitch black here, at the bottom of a ravine, in the middle of the night. All he can really tell is that the man is dressed all in white, and in this place, that means he must be the very best, a master assassin.

"What's wrong?" he asks, and his voice is a stranger's. Going by the accent, he must be from somewhere in the middle east, probably just arrived to visit the farm. Well, they get all kinds here. Desmond is no stranger to strangeness.

"I…" Desmond is no more willing to admit his failure to this stranger than to the others at the Farm. He looks down and away instead. The man gives him a brief pat on the shoulder, lingering just long enough to squeeze slightly. It's oddly comforting.

"Stand up," the stranger says. "Come here."

"Why?" Desmond asks dully, even as he does as he's told. That's always a safe bet.

"I can help you."

"But—" the man is already vanishing up the top of the rock wall, and for a moment he stands at the top. He looks down at Desmond, and Desmond looks up at him. He can't help thinking how… free this stranger looks, perched at the top of what is an insurmountable obstacle for Desmond. The moon shines down on him, casting him in silhouette, and something close to panic swells up in Desmond. What if the stranger just turns around and walks off? What if he leaves—

"I won't leave," the man says, almost impatiently. He crouches and reaches a hand down for Desmond. "Jump. I will help you up."

"But—"

" _Jump_."

It still takes three tries before Desmond is able to reach the top, and when he finally makes it over the edge he almost falls back down again from sheer relief. "Why?" he asks, when he has steadied himself. "Why did you help me? I mean, you _are_ an assassin, aren't you? I'm not really good enough to bother with, everyone says so."

"Then I disagree with what everyone says," the man tells him, and again Desmond takes an odd sort of comfort from the man's hand on his shoulder. "There is something brave in aiming for freedom, no matter how impossible it may seem."

No one has ever called Desmond brave before.

"But _why_ ," he presses, ignoring the flush that's heating his face. "Why?"

The man sighs. "If you really need a reason, then call it an apology," he says. "We will meet again one day, and I will not be as understanding then as I am now. I hope you'll be patient."

Desmond doesn't quite answer, because the man has turned slightly, enough that Desmond can vaguely make out his features in the moonlight. He resembles Desmond to an almost disturbing degree, so that Desmond catches himself thinking—this could be him, if he could climb, if he were a _real_ assassin. This could be him, in another world where he is more than just a screw up and his father is proud of him.

For a moment, the idea of his father's pride is so tantalizingly close that Desmond almost goes running back to the Farm. He can slip back into bed before anyone realizes he's gone, try harder than he ever has, be someone… good.

The man smiles a little, and just like that the illusion shatters. His face is not Desmond's. The expression there is foreign. "Run," the man says. "Hide. Keep yourself safe."

"I can't," Desmond says. "I'll _fail_."

"But not before you are _free_ ," the man says, and a spasm goes through Desmond's whole body at the sound and feel of that word. "Give yourself that chance."

"But—"

"Find out who you are." He frowns sharply. "Away from your father."

No one. "I—"

"Run," the man says, and gives Desmond a little push between the shoulder blades. He stumbles forward, legs moving just to keep from falling, and he hears one last shouted _Run!_ that's enough to keep him moving. When he glances back over his shoulder, the man is gone. But… but Desmond has not been this far from the Farm in—God, in how long? Now that he is moving, it is like something is pushing him away, like he and the Farm are two magnets of the same polarity, pushing each other away. Desmond runs faster and faster, slipping into the form his father has always tried so hard to teach him, but which has never felt as natural as it does now.

Because now, Desmond _runs_. Hard and far and fast, and his mind races even farther ahead, into the future, a great, unknown future of his own, a future that it is up to _him_ to write. And maybe it doesn't matter if he lasts years or months or days or only a single hour. Right at this moment, he's free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'll allow me to be absurdly self-indulgent here for a minute:
> 
> Today is my ten year fanfiction writing anniversary (clearly an important milestone, right? xD). And in that time I've gone through about four accounts on two websites, and written for half a dozen fandoms. I have 1,234,962 published words, and the best ones so far have been the ones I wrote for Visitorverse. It has been (and I hope will continue to be) a wild, awesome ride. Thanks to everyone that's part of this crazy, beautiful verse.


	88. Chapter 88

Jacob watches Evie all the way to London. He watches her like a hawk because she's not doing any of her normal Evie-things, like yelling at him, or making absurdly meticulous plans, or harping about her stupid glowing Eden toys. She'd taken out her journal again, which had cheered Jacob very briefly because Evie always likes to write about how missions went after they're over.

But she doesn't write. She just stares at the page where she'd written the name  _ Henry _ over and over on the way back from Brewster's lab. And Jacob really hates the look on her face, because as much as she's a complete pain most of the time, Jacob isn't ready to be without her.

"Evie?" he says. They're nowhere near London, but Jacob doesn't think he can take the silent rocking of the train any longer. Bickering would be better, at least it would pull him back from this place she's gone that he can't follow. The look on her face tells Jacob with absolute certainty that she's far, far away. "Evie, come back," Jacob says, nudging at her with his foot. "Evie!"

She stirs herself enough to look at him, and for a moment as she stands up there is a hint of fire in her eyes. Then it fades. "Just leave me alone, Jacob," she complains.

"But—"

"I'm going to the next car," she says, jerking her head sideways. "I just need to think."

 

"Maybe you need to talk," Jacob says. "You've been doing a  _ lot _ of thinking—"

Evie should have answered this with some kind of a comeback. But she doesn't, she just turns and walks off in the middle of his sentence. "Evie…" Jacob calls after her, quiet enough that he knows she won't hear.

But  _ someone  _ does. From somewhere behind Jacob, a little voice says "…what?"

He turns around, blade ready—he would very much like to just stab someone, it would be so much easier than trying to puzzle out his sister. But there's just a (very familiar) little girl standing there. It's… it's Evie. Evie as she had been maybe fifteen, sixteen years ago. Her hair is cut short, like a boy's, and she's wearing the same rough clothes Jacob remembers being dressed in when he was that age. When their father had first taken them back from their grandmother, he hadn't known much about raising children, and even less about raising girls. He'd dressed them the same, cut their hair the same, treated them exactly the same in every way. Jacob remembers how much Evie had  _ loved  _ that, being given permission to play rough with him instead of being kept inside in her skirts all day.

Jacob had just liked how much the same they looked.

"Where's Jacob?" little-Evie says. She's demanding an answer, not asking a question—Jacob smiles a little to see her so alive, even if it is absolutely impossible for her to be here  _ young  _ like this, even if it's hard to have her looking at him like he's a stranger.

"How are you here?" Jacob asks. He crouches down in front of her, putting them on the same level. She glares at him.

" _ I  _ don't know," she says. Then she scowls and  _ hits _ him, pushing at his shoulders with the palms of both hands. "Where's Jacob?" she demands. "I need my brother!"

"Hey!" Jacob protests. "Hey, Evie!" He's so much bigger than her that for the first time in his life it's not even a struggle to hold her still. He wraps one of his hands around both of hers, and reaches around to hold the other against her back. "Evie,  _ I'm  _ Jacob."

This doesn't even phase her. "Not my Jacob," she insists. "You're like  _ father _ ."

Well, there's an accusation he's never heard from his sister before. "What?" Jacob demands.

"You're old," she tells him. "Not like my Jacob." And then, to his extreme dismay, Evie starts to cry. "He's my best friend," she says, between huge, shoulder shaking sobs. "Why won't you tell me where he is?"

Jacob's brain is still furiously trying to make impossible connections, still searching for some hint of an explanation (beyond  _ hey guess what you're dreaming time to wake up now _ ) when Evie just vanishes. One second he's holding her as she cries, the next, his arms fall against empty air. Jacob sits back on his heels, thinking. And mostly what he's thinking is that he's never been any good at thinking, he needs Evie to help him figure this out.

But she's in the next car, and at the same time she's a million miles away. She's not in any position to help him…

So maybe he needs to help her?

Jacob follows Evie into the next car, sits down at her side and gently tugs her journal away from her lax grip. He closes it, shutting away the (three full pages, now) repetition of  _ Henry, Henry, Henry _ .

"Jacob…" Evie protests. But she says it without real strength. Jacob slips the journal into an inner pocket. "I need that."

"No," Jacob says. "You need your best friend."

"And that's you, is it?" Evie asks, even as Jacob half turns to hug her.

"Sure it is," Jacob says. "You told me so."

She hugs him back, hesitantly. "Everything's wrong, Jacob," she whispers. "My head feels… Jacob, I lost something important and I don't know what."

"It's messing you up," Jacob says. "I need you to come back, okay? Come back to me, Evie."

"But—"

"We have to save London, remember?" Jacob asks, and he beams when she almost actually laughs at this. "Are we going to be okay?"

"I hope so," Evie says. "I really do."

She sighs and curls up in his arms, and when he thinks she's not looking, Jacob peeks down at her journal. He studies the pages full of Henry's name, and then pauses. One of the pages isn't  _ just  _ Henry, like the others—way down at the bottom, she's written  _ The Rooks _ , and Jacob tucks the words away in the back of his head to think about later. There’s something about the sound of it that he likes.


	89. Chapter 89

Haytham has reached a point in his life where most of his visitors are a welcome presence. After this many years together, even the things that had once annoyed or angered him have lost their edge. His father has long since lost the ability to make Haytham feel embarrassed, no matter what kind of drunken shenanigans he gets up to. Altair has transitioned from a threat into a sort of friend (even if he is a strange kind of friend, one who will still try to kill Haytham occasionally, if he visits from too early in his timeline). And they are all, in one way or another, family.

Edward and Connor are literally his family, of course. Shay might as well be—while templars do not call one another brothers, as the assassins do, but the feelings are still there. Haytham has fought alongside Shay, they have bled and suffered and struggled together. Haytham has saved Shay's life more than once, and Shay has more than returned the favor. And if Shay is family, then of course Aveline is as well. Haytham is still… struggling with his exact feelings for the two of them, but he knows at least that they are family. Altair and Ezio are more complicated, of course. Haytham is not as close to them as he is to the visitors he has been able to meet in person, but they are (he is no longer reluctant to admit) good people.

And then there is Desmond.

Haytham has no idea what Desmond wants from him. Or he does have an idea, and it terrifies him, because he wants that too. Desmond is breaking and broken, he is reaching helplessly for _anyone_ that is willing to care for him, and Haytham is more than willing. He would like nothing more than to take Desmond away from the animus and his father, but—well, Desmond is halfway out of his mind, and so desperate he would take anyone. Even Haytham. And Haytham has no desire to take advantage of that desperation, only to have Desmond come to his senses in the future and realize he'd be better off without Haytham.

But he can't deny that he likes Desmond. Or that it's nice to be wanted.

Which is why his behavior on this particular visit is such a nasty surprise. He arrives at Haytham's side as Haytham walks through the streets of Boston in the early evening. It's a peaceful enough setting, and under normal circumstances Haytham would have enjoyed the opportunity for a casual conversation with Desmond. But today is clearly not _normal_ , because Desmond takes one look at him and shakes his head. Disappointed—Haytham's stomach flips without his permission. What has he done to disappoint Desmond?

"What's wrong?" he asks.

Desmond scoffs, and steps sideways so that he's walking a few feet away from Haytham. "None of your business," he says.

"Why not?"

"Because."

"Desmond," Haytham says softly. "Tell me what's wrong and I'll do what I can to help you, but—"

"Oh, you'll _help_ ," Desmond says, his voice brittle and angry. "You're a templar, why would you want to help me?"

"I have always been a templar," Haytham says, after a short pause. "Why is this bothering you now?"

"Oh, right," Desmond says. He stops where he is and Haytham stops as well, facing him. "Because I've known for all of two days, I'm supposed to just be over finding out one of my ancestors is a templar?"

"Ah," Haytham says quietly. Early Desmond. He remembers at least one conversation, long ago now, when Desmond had first found out Haytham's allegiance. They'd argued then, and apparently Desmond hasn't quite gotten over the revelation. "I can't say I'm sorry to have chosen the side I did, but I am sorry it's upset you." Be happy, Desmond. Just be happy.

"I can't believe you!" Desmond says. "I just—I can't believe… you're a templar, and all this time you've been making me think you were a good person. But you're one of them! I don't know why I thought you could be a good person. Just stupid, I guess, but—I mean come on, have you ever cared for anyone in your life? I know templars, I know—I know _three lifetimes_ worth of templars. I know what they're like. You couldn't possibly be a templar if you had ever cared for people. You couldn't, because then you wouldn't be able to _hurt_ people like that."

Haytham wants to point out that Desmond's opinion of templars had been unavoidably tarnished when Warren Vidic had kidnapped him and strapped him into a device guaranteed to drive him crazy. He stays silent.

"And I just don't see—what?" He stops abruptly, frowning at Haytham. Well, he's been frowning the whole time, but now it's deeper. "Why are you smiling?"

"Am I?" Haytham asks. He starts walking again, forcing Desmond to follow along with him.

"You _are_ ," Desmond insists. "Why?"

Because how often has he seen Desmond this animated, about anything? There is a very small window of time between the first time that Haytham and Desmond met, and the point when Desmond tipped over the edge, before he shattered into a shell of who he used to be. But here he is, alert, passionate, even angry. He is himself. And all Haytham cares about is that. Right now, it doesn't even matter that Desmond is angry with _him_.

"I suppose I'm just having a good evening," he says, and refuses to elaborate even when Desmond switches from shouting to pouting like a child.


	90. Chapter 90

Edward is sleeping when he suddenly appears in front of Connor, and Connor holds his breath and hopes with all his might that he'll _stay_ asleep. Edward is not the worst visitor, but Connor is still struggling to master the _Aquila,_ and he does not need Edward gleefully pointing out everything he's doing wrong, or worse yet, taking Connor over to sail the ship himself.

But the seconds tick past, and then a full minute, and Edward still shows no sign of waking. Connor breathes out in relief and turns his attention back to not running the ship aground. That's still sort of hard.

Mr. Faulkner keeps a close eye on Connor throughout the trip—but they're not doing anything special, just going out on a relatively short, easy practice run. After a while they get to talking, and a few of the nearby sailors join in. One of them (Jacob, maybe? Connor hadn't quite managed to catch the name) keeps smiling at Connor. He's not entirely sure whether or not he's being laughed at.

Still, it is an easy, casual journey, and Connor finds himself relaxing. He even starts smiling as well.

And then Edward wakes up.

By now, Connor is alone at the wheel, frowning in concentration as he tries to keep the ship on course. But he feels proud to be trusted to steer the ship on his own, and he does _not_ need Edward's interruption right now to distract him.

"Are you old enough to be sailing?" Edward asks.

Connor tries not to look too much like he's drowning in his sailing robes. "I'm fifteen," he says defensively, which makes Edward laugh at the top of his lungs.

"Fifteen, eh?" he says. "Well, what do I care, fifteen or fifty? She's not my ship, and you seem to be taking care of her just fine." He pats the _Aquila's_ railing almost fondly, like other men might pat a favorite dog.

Connor waits for him to say something else, something annoying and crass, maybe, but Edward only moves to the side of the ship. He leans on the rail and watches the sea in absolute stillness. It is the calmest Connor has ever seen Edward, just standing there and staring out at the sea. After a while he starts singing a shanty under his breath, half humming and half singing. But it's not at all distracting, it's actually… sort of nice.

Soon, Connor is humming along and smiling to himself.


	91. Chapter 91

The good thing about this visit, _the only good thing about this visit_ , is that Altair is not in _Malik's_ bureau when it begins. He's in Damascus, and no one there knows him well enough to recognize his flinch or the strangled gasp of horrified surprise he gives on seeing Shay appear stark naked and fast asleep in the middle of the floor.

Altair is vaguely aware that Shay and Aveline have recently started doing things that… that templars and assassins are not supposed to do together. He's eagerly awaiting the day they realize it could never work out and stop taking their clothes off so much. Of course, visiting being what it is, Altair will apparently be at risk of walking in on them for the rest of his life, but the less time they spend together, the smaller that chance becomes.

Still, Altair can tell (from his very, _very_ brief look at his visitor) that this Shay is not naked because he's sleeping with Aveline. He might, of course, be sleeping with someone else. There had been many women before Aveline, hadn't there? Just as there will presumably be many women after her. But this Shay looks to be in his late teens, far too young to know about visiting or visitors.

Altair stares for a long time at a point on the wall somewhere just above Shay's sleeping, naked body. He knows that Haytham had explained visiting to Shay as an adult, so it will probably break the timeline for Altair to so much as wake him now, won't it? Because Shay will have questions, and Altair will have to give him _some_ kind of answer. It doesn't seem very likely that Shay would forget something like this, so waking him will almost certainly have _some_ effect on his future. It could even break time somehow, just shatter everything into pieces.

…yes but Shay is _naked_. Extremely and obviously naked. There are… bits of Shay hanging out that Altair really does not want to have to spend the rest of this visit staring at.

He looks around at the rest of the bureau, trying to find something else to look at. But it's a very small room, and there's not much else to look at. Altair squirms uncomfortably. At this point he'd have almost welcomed Aveline's appearance. At least she'd have some idea of what to do with a naked Shay.

No, wait—Altair shakes his head forcefully, as if trying to physically shake that thought out of his head. No. He does _not_ want Aveline here just now—while she will no doubt have some idea of what to do with a naked Shay, Altair highly doubts he will like her idea.

Shay mumbles something in his sleep and rolls over. Which would have been fine, if he'd rolled away from Altair. Instead, he rolls toward him. So now instead of a horrifying sort of side profile view, Altair is treated to a full frontal.

He stands up and shuffles around to Shay's back.

Shay flips over.

"Aaargh…" Altair says. Although he doesn't so much say it as he just opens his mouth and the horrified sound sort of falls out.

He hasn't quite believed Desmond's complaints about his frequent visits with naked visitors. He'd even told him once that things couldn't possibly be as bad as he claimed, which had made Desmond pout for the rest of the visit. Altair finds himself suddenly feeling a lot more sympathetic.

He's tired, and he wants to sleep—but Altair knows he won't be able to so much as close his eyes while there's any chance of ending up to naked, pubescent Shay. There are just… so many things wrong with that. So very many things.

In the end, he goes to the pile of pillows lying on the floor near the fountain, and stacks them up like a wall between himself and Shay's unmentionables. As long as Shay doesn't move, Altair won't have to see anything else he doesn't want to see.

Although it does occur to him—as he leans back against the wall, arms folded and eyes dropping shut for an on his feet catnap—that he will never be able to use those pillows again.


	92. Chapter 92

Edward is near to bursting with excitement when he looks around and sees Ezio, which makes Ezio very nervous.

"Hey!" he announces. "Hey, Ezio, guess what!"

"What?" Ezio asks.

"I get to be the voice of reason this time!"

Ezio raises his eyebrows. "Are you completely sure you know how?"

"I'll wing it," Edward says, waving Ezio's concern away. Since Edward is currently upside down in a tree, and has been ever since Ezio came to visit, this plan does not seem like it will go well.

"What do you need to be the voice of reason about?" he asks.

"Altair says you're bothering him," Edward says cheerfully. "But he doesn't want to talk to you himself, because I think he's afraid you're going to make out with him. So I figured I'd try and help, and maybe make him not jump off buildings when I'm visiting because that's not fun."

"How am I bothering Altair?" Ezio asks. He'd never meant to bother him, and he is horrified at the thought that he's been unintentionally bothering the man he respects above all others.

Edward makes obnoxious kissing noises and flips over like a snake on the branch. His face, which had been slowly turning red as all the blood rushed to his head, starts to go back to a more normal color. Edward normal, anyway. His cheeks are still slightly red, presumably from his constant state of being at least slightly drunk.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ezio asks. But his voice is too loud in his own ears, and he knows he's being too defensive. If he's honest with himself, he knows exactly what Edward is talking about, exactly what is bothering Altair.

"You keep hitting on him," Edward says. "And he's said no in every conceivable way, which doesn't seem to stop you."

"I didn't think—I mean…" he stiffens, almost angry. " _You're_ one to talk, Edward, you'd make out with anything that stands still long enough."

"Would not," Edward protests. "I'm not stupid enough to hit on him, even if my type happened to be 'angry and murderous'." He laughs, which is even worse. "What do you even see in him, anyway?" he asks. "Is it just the looks?"

"Sort of," Ezio says. "He _is_ attractive." Because it's true. There's something about Altair's serious face, and his well muscled—well, everything—that excites Ezio. He's not going to fight it. "But it's not just that. There are plenty of attractive people in the world. Altair is everything the creed is supposed to represent. He embodies the things I've given my life to following. So I would follow Altair to the end of the world and back, if he let me."

"Do you love him?" Edward asks, like it's a joke.

"I'm not sure how to answer that," Ezio says. "It's not the same as Cristina, for example. Loving Altair is like loving a force of nature."

Somehow, this seems to have an effect on Edward. He frowns in obvious effort as he actually thinks this over. "Some sailors," he says at last, "say they love the ocean. They have women on land, and they love them in a certain way. But when they go to sea, that's a different kind of love."

"Some sailors," Ezio echoes. "Do _you_ —"

"No," Edward says dismissively. Then, quieter—"Maybe. There's something about being out on the open sea and it's nothing at all like being in bed with a woman, but… it's still something like love." He sighs. "So Altair is your ocean?"

"I'm not sure he'd like the comparison," Ezio says. Especially since Altair can't swim. "But he's something similar to me, I guess."

"Well." Edward stands up and hops from the branch to the ground. Ezio follows him, because of course he does, because he can't exactly leave while he's visiting. "I won't tell Altair."

"Can you keep a secret?" Ezio asks doubtfully.

"I'll keep this one," Edward says. "Anyway, Altair specifically told me _not_ to talk to you about this. I'm obviously not going to talk you out of kissing his hands—" as if Ezio does that. Anymore.

Much.

"He would have _liked_ that," Edward goes on. "But since I can't do that…my only way out of this without getting into trouble is for him to never find out we talked about this."

"Deal," Ezio says. Edward kind of grins at him and starts walking—Ezio's visit lasts just long enough for Edward to get to the nearest beach, just long enough for Ezio to see the look on his face when he sees the ocean stretched out before them.


	93. Chapter 93

Connor is never entirely sure how Joy comes to live on the homestead. It's Matthew's idea, he's at least sure of that, but he doesn't… _quite_ understand how she came to be a permanent resident. She had simply appeared one day, a newborn with the monumental good fortune of being found by someone willing to care for her. Matthew—who looks as surprised as any man would be on suddenly finding an infant—suggests that they look after her until they can find the mother.

The creed dictates they avoid harming innocents, and in any case Connor does not like the idea of abandoning a child to a certain and quick death. Abandoning her a second time, because there is no sign at all of the child's mother. So he agrees that Joy can stay, just for a while. They find a woman to help feed her, and Joy grows just as any other healthy newborn would.

She is maybe a month old when Connor realizes he doesn’t know quite where her name had come from. It's what everyone at the homestead has taken to calling her, but Connor isn't sure who named her. He wastes a few days trying to figure it out, and then Matthew admits it had come from him.

"Her parents should name her," Connor tells his son.

Matthew is changing Joy at the moment, almost laughing as she kicks her feet, wiggling and swaying like she's trying to dance. "She needs a name," he says. "She can't just be 'the baby,' can she?"

"She can," Connor says, cautiously. "Remember, we need to look for her parents. They might have abandoned her, but they might have just had bad luck while traveling. She could have been taken from them."

But just then the woman that has been feeding Joy comes by to do exactly that, and they never get a chance to finish the conversation.

This wouldn't have been irritating if it had only happened one, but to Connor's confusion it seems to become a pattern. Every time he broaches the idea of Joy leaving, Matthew claims some urgent business elsewhere and leaves the conversation halfway through. After a while, Connor realizes that Matthew is actively avoiding the conversation. It takes him longer than it should, but Connor doesn't want to even think about the idea that there is something his son won't talk to him about.

Hurt, and still convinced Joy belongs with her true parents (he has lost a son and a daughter, after all—Matthew's return does not make the memory of the original hurt any easier to bear), Connor nevertheless takes a step back. A fight will do nothing but raise bad blood between himself and Matthew, and Connor isn't sure he could bear that. So he just watches, and tries to think of what to do next. Time passes.

Joy is six months old, sitting on Matthew's lap as he tries to wean her onto solid foods. Occasionally she will consent to eat one, but more often the food ends up smeared on her face, or Matthew's face, or the table, or the ceiling. Matthew is patient, enduring a great many meals that end in food filled messes, and eventually Joy, almost grudgingly, starts eating.

Joy is a year old, swaying on legs that aren't _quite_ ready to hold her, toddling after Matthew wherever he goes, screaming and crying at the top of her lungs whenever he goes somewhere she can't follow. She calls him _dada_ , although where she'd picked up on that word is a mystery to Connor. Every time she says it, Matthew's face turns the color of oatmeal that's been sitting out too long. _No_ , he tells her. _Not dada_. It takes Joy a while, but eventually she connects the dots and figures out she's not supposed to use that word. She starts calling him _Matty_ instead, and Connor relaxes.

Joy is five, learning her letters with the other children of the homestead, counting _one, two, three, four, five_ on her fingers, running home on legs that never seem to stop moving these days. She shows Matthew everything she ever learns, shouting her lessons at him at the top of her lungs, singing them at him when she figures out it makes him laugh. And Matthew lavishes her with praise, as if counting all the way to ten is an accomplishment on par with Newton's discovery of calculus, as if her chicken scratch alphabet is as skillfully written as Shakespeare's plays. Joy glows with pride at his every word.

Joy is ten, climbing everything in sight because that's what Matthew does. But she's too small and too inexperienced, and when she inevitably falls she falls far and hard. She doesn't wake for three days, and so for three days Matthew sits by her bed. He holds her hand and wipes her face with a damp cloth, whispering pleas that Connor cannot bring himself to eavesdrop on. When she finally opens her eyes (and complains at once that she is hungry), Matthew cries from the relief.

Joy is seventeen, alarmingly unpredictable, surly and withdrawn as often as she is affectionate and open. There are times now when she pulls back from Matthew, when she seems to be trying to figure out who she is and what she wants from life. But the conclusion she always seems to come to is that what she wants is Matthew, and she always comes back to him in the end. She is growing into a strong young woman, an outdoorswoman and a hunter, and there are times when she'll go off on her own for days or sometimes weeks, traveling and exploring. Connor never worries about her—she's no assassin, she shies away from killing, but she can defend herself—but Matthew watches the road every day while she's gone. He never relaxes until she comes back to him.

Joy is twenty, and she is sitting next to him at the kitchen table, fiddling absentmindedly with the spring on a hunting trap she's been trying to repair for at least half an hour. She is looking at him with a thoughtful frown on her face. "Connor," she is saying. "Are you listening to me?"

Connor takes a breath and pulls himself out of his memories. "I'm sorry," he says. "I was thinking."

Her long, curly hair falls forward across her face as she leans toward him. "About me?"

"Yes," he admits.

"Hmm." She pushes the trap away and turns more fully toward him. "I think you think about me a lot," she says. "Don't you? It feels like you're always watching me, but you never actually _say_ anything. I want to know what you're thinking about."

He briefly considers lying, but she is an adult and old enough to have this discussion. "I am thinking that Matthew and I have both failed you," he says. "Twenty years ago, we agreed that you would only stay here until we could find your parents. We never even looked."

"That's okay," Joy says, which is strange because she sounds like she means it. Connor remembers her at a year old, at five, at ten, at seventeen, growing up and growing bold but always with that flicker of doubt in her eyes. There is no doubt that she loves Matthew, but before now she has always seemed to wonder who her parents are. That uncertainty is gone now, and Connor wonders if she's found out somehow. But when she goes on, she says, "I have Matty. He's everything a parent should be."

And Connor wonders _again_ , but this time it sharpens into a specific suspicion. It's been twenty years and somehow this idea has never occurred to him before. "Joy," he says softly. "Is Matthew your father? Your actual father?"

She gives him a smile with so many layers that Connor can't tell what it means. It's clearly saying _something_ , but he can't tell if that something is a yes or a no. "Connor," she says. " If Matthew was my father, who would my mother be? Have you ever seen him with a woman?"

"No," Connor admits. His son has never seemed interested in any woman at all—if he'd ever been in a relationship, the woman would have had to have been invisible for Connor not to have been aware of her. She'd have to be… Connor's mind gropes for an explanation. She'd have to be a visitor, for Connor not to know about her. And _obviously_ Matthew doesn't have visitors. Besides, even if he did have visitors (Connor very nearly laughs at the absurdity of the idea), Shay and Aveline have proven without a doubt that visitors can't conceive on visits. So the idea that Joy is Matthew's daughter is clearly ridiculous.

Obviously impossible.

Obviously.

"I'm happy," Joy assures him, patting Connor briefly on the arm. "Nobody _failed_ me, not the way I look at it. I have work and a family and that's enough for me. But thank you for being concerned."

She gets up to leave then, gathering her work and heading for the door. Desmond appears abruptly in front of her as she leaves, and jumps back a step to avoid being pushed out of the way. He looks around, apparently confused by the sudden visit, but Connor is just relieved to see him looking saner than usual. This is a Desmond before he got too far along Connor's life in the animus, then. He eyes Connor with the usual distrust, his _you're a hallucination and I shouldn't be seeing you_ face, then sort of gestures after Joy. "…your granddaughter?" he guesses.

"No," Connor says. His earlier suggestion that Matthew might be Joy's father seems absurd now. "We're not related."

"Oh," Desmond says. He stands uncomfortably in the middle of the room, obviously uncertain what to do or where to go, maybe not even sure if he's welcome here. "Are you positive?" he asks at last. It sounds like he's just looking for something to say. "I thought it looked like there was a little bit of resemblance. Between you and her, I mean."

Connor shakes his head. "Desmond," he says. "Joy is as much my granddaughter as she is yours."

Desmond laughs without humor. "Yea, right," he says. "I'd have to have a kid before I can start thinking about grandkids, and it doesn't look like _that's_ going to happen."

Well, no. Connor has seen Desmond's death and there had certainly been no sign of children then. He shakes his head, and tries to steer the conversation away from family, and onto other topics.


	94. Chapter 94

Connor has been curious about Edward for quite some time now. Perhaps  _ morbidly _ curious might be a more accurate description, but curious nonetheless. Of all the visitors, Edward is the one Connor has the most trouble understanding. And that includes his father, whose actions are often as baffling as they are frustrating. But no—even his father's actions as a templar cannot compare with some of the stranger things Edward has done.

Connor might have thought it because Edward is a pirate, but most of the men he sails with are not so different from the ones that crew the  _ Aquila _ . And none of them are as…  _ Edward _ as Edward is. And beyond his admittedly strange behavior, there are the deeper mysteries. Connor does not understand, for example, how it is that Edward has the same last name as Haytham. Connor has asked his father, of course he has, and  _ as usual _ his father had given him an answer that tells Connor absolutely nothing.

But that at least is a question to be answered another day. For now, the more horrifyingly relevant question relates back to a warning Connor once received from his father. Edward, apparently, has been working his way through their visitors.  _ Kissing  _ them. Connor had not thought Edward would actually come to  _ him _ with that in mind. Connor is not interested in kissing. And even if he were, Connor is certainly not interested in kissing Edward. Unfortunately, Edward is apparently interested in kissing Connor. Very interested, which is how they have arrived at their current situation.

Connor arrives just as Edward is falling backwards onto the mess of a bed he keeps in his cabin. There are clothes and other bits of odds and ends scattered across it, and Edward sort of kicks halfheartedly at them until they fall onto the floor. They join the rest of the mess that's already there, empty rum bottles and—Connor has no idea what  _ that  _ thing is, actually. The point is, everything is a mess, but Edward most of all. He smells of rum, and Connor holds his breath and hopes that Edward will just pass out without noticing he has a visitor.

No such luck. Connor backs away from Edward, aiming for a chair, and his foot hits a stray bottle. It rattles as it rolls away, and makes a loud clinking noise as it hits the cabin wall. Edward's eyes snap open, and he grins.

"Connor!" he calls. "Hey, Connor, kiss me."

"What?  _ No _ ."

But Edward is already out of bed and stumbling toward Connor, moving with impressive speed for a man as drunk as Edward obviously is. "Just a kiss!" he says, laughing. But he does not struggle as much as he should when Connor puts a hand on Edward's chest to keep him an arm's length away. "Connor, it's just a  _ kiss _ ." He strains around Connor's arm, cupping his face in one rough hand. Connor slaps it away.

"I said no."

"But you have such a kissable face," Edward says. Connor can't stop himself from flinching a little bit. No one has ever said that to him before. He highly suspects that Edward is only saying it now because he's incredibly drunk. Edward puckers his lips and leans forward, and Connor leans away, and they're in the middle of this awkward half dance (although Connor is seriously considering just hitting Edward hard enough to knock him out) when Aveline appears.

She takes in the scene and scoffs. "Edward," she says. " _ What  _ are you doing?"

"Kissing."

"Does Connor look like he wants to kiss you?" Aveline asks, hand on her hip.

"He has to kiss  _ someone _ ," Edward says, as if this should have been obvious.

"He doesn't want to."

Connor stays quiet. Normally, he would have objected to Aveline speaking for him, but frankly he has no desire to be part of this conversation.

"But  _ Avelineeeeeee _ ," Edward says, dragging her name out in the most obnoxious manner possible.

"Fine," Aveline says. She sounds like she's absolutely at the end of her rope. "Connor, come here."

"What?"

Aveline turns her head and gives Connor a kiss on his closed mouth. It's not quite a friendly, platonic kiss, but it's not the slobbering, drunken mess that Edward's would have been. It lasts a while, and Connor does his best not to look like he’s just standing there in complete confusion. Obviously Aveline has some kind of plan, so Connor sort of tilts his face toward her, away from Edward, then closes his eyes and waits for it to be over.

"There," Aveline says, pulling back from Connor and turning back to Edward. "Connor has been kissed."

"He—but—not by  _ me _ ."

"You just said he has to kiss  _ someone _ ," Aveline says. She grabs him around the shoulders and steers him back toward his bed. He goes, still looking somewhat confused, and Aveline manages to get him into bed without too much more protesting. He mumbles angrily for a few minutes about sheep, and then starts snoring.

Aveline sighs and walks back to Connor, shaking her head. She looks very young, so Connor hesitates, trying to phrase his question carefully. "Is there anyone I should be… concerned about? I mean, you are not… kissing anyone else, are you?"

"Oh," Aveline says. "No."

Connor relaxes a little. Aveline before Shay, then. That helps to take some of the strangeness away. Just a bit.

Aveline smiles at him, obviously catching the remaining traces of awkwardness on his face. "Don't worry about it, Connor. I just thought you looked like you needed rescuing from Edward."

He smiles. Sheepishly, which no doubt would have annoyed Edward. "I did," he admits. "Thank you for stepping in."

She nods, and they spend the rest of their visit in conversation. Aveline has a new sword that she takes out and shows Connor—they talk steel for a while, and then Connor shows Aveline his tomahawk. They are in the middle of comparing darts when Connor's visit ends. He goes back to his own time, thinking that, well Edward and his weird fascination with kissing had been sort of strange, but at least Aveline had been there to help.

That's what friends are for, and… yes. They  _ are _ friends. Connor smiles his way through the rest of the morning. 


	95. Chapter 95

Today, when Connor arrives in Monteriggioni, he finds a young Ezio—late teens or early twenties—balancing cross legged on a narrow, rickety chair, leaning forward slightly in glum contemplation. He does not acknowledge Connor when he arrives, and so Connor takes a moment to look around the room, trying to figure out what has the usually upbeat Ezio so down.

They're in a bedroom, large but austerely decorated. In the center of the room is a bed, neatly made, and Connor frowns at the woman kneeling against it. She is whispering something under her breathe, and although Connor can't quite hear the words, he recognizes from her posture that she is deeply absorbed in prayer.

And Ezio is fully absorbed in studying her.

Connor shuffles a little, trying to make enough noise to attract Ezio's attention. Normally, Connor does not mind silence, but there is a sort of deadness to the quiet in this room, something unnatural, and he would not mind leaving. But Ezio only glances at Connor and then away, as if he just doesn't have room in his head to think about him right now.

Connor waits, discomfort growing. This is an Ezio that obviously knows about visiting already, judging by his complete lack of any reaction whatsoever, but Connor thinks he might not have been visiting long. Ezio is skinny and stretched out in the way some people get when they're not quite done growing, and there's almost no muscle on him anywhere yet. Still a child, if only just.

The room starts to darken around them, and Ezio stands to light candles. The room looks even grimmer in their flickering half-light. When he is finished, Ezio cautiously kneels beside the woman. He reaches for her hand, but she twitches away without looking at him, without pausing in her ongoing prayer. "Mother," Ezio says, in a hushed voice that seems to fit the room perfectly. "Mother, it's late. But it's—well, it's Claudia's birthday. I know she would really like to see you come down and eat supper with the rest of us tonight."

He pauses, hope clearly visible on his face, as if waiting for his mother to answer. But she doesn't, she just continues with her whispering. Ezio waits a long while, several minutes at least, then gets up. "Tomorrow, maybe," he says without looking at her, and walks with heavy feet toward the door. Connor, of course, follows, but he hesitates a moment before doing so. When Ezio has turned away, heading for the door, Connor sees his mother squeeze her eyes shut, sees the tears that slip down her face. But she doesn't move, doesn't stop in her ongoing prayer, and Connor leaves quickly.

He finds Ezio in the hallway, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. When Connor comes out, Ezio glances up at him without even an attempt at a smile. "You're… Connor, right?" he says.

Connor nods.

"Sorry about…" Ezio waves an arm vaguely at the room, but gives Connor a suddenly fierce look, that strongly implies that if Connor _dares_ to take offense at what he's just seen, Ezio will have something to say about it.

"She's your mother?" Connor asks.

"Yes," Ezio says.

"Is she ill?"

"Not really," Ezio says. "I don't know, I don't—ever since my father and brothers died, it's just like she's far away somewhere. And she doesn't want to come back, so no matter how hard we try, she won't…"

Connor glances back through the door. He keeps trying to imagine how he would feel if he was in Connor's shoes, if his mother was still alive but somehow unreachable. It might almost be worse than the reality, because at least Connor doesn't have to live with the terrible hope that his mother might come back someday, the way Ezio does. "I'm sorry," Connor says at last.

"She just prays," Ezio says. "And I don't understand—she was never all that religious before, but now everyone's _gone_ …"

"You're not," Connor says. "Your sister isn't." He struggles, looking for the words that will… fit this situation. Not the ones that will make everything better, because Connor is fully aware that those words do not exist. Even if they did, it would not be his place to say them. He is only a visitor here. "She will see you again someday," he says at last. "She will come back from wherever she's gone, and she will see you."

"I hope so," Ezio says. "I _hope_ so." He uncrosses his arms, and sticks a hand into his pocket. When he pulls it out again, there's a white feather in his open hand. "I've been collecting these for her," he says. "My little brother, he always wanted them. And I thought… maybe they would help her remember something good for once, instead of something bad."

He looks up at Connor, a complicated mess of emotions tangled together on his face. Hope and shame and sorrow and fear, but none of the stubborn, almost ridiculous good cheer that Connor is used to seeing.

"I think that's a good idea," Connor says, and some of the confusion on Ezio's face seems to collapse a little into relief.

"Thanks," he says, and then Connor's visit ends abruptly.

-//-

Even before that, Connor had always had a thing for feathers. Never taken from live birds of course, never, because he knows how much the loss of a single feather can hurt a bird when it's trying to fly. But he likes climbing trees to reach the tallest branches, finding feathers hidden in nests, bringing them back to remember that feeling of almost-flying.

But after his visit with Ezio, he starts sorting through them to find the white ones, the ones Ezio would want. And it's not like he'll ever be able to give them to Ezio, they'll never join the growing collection Ezio keeps in a little box in his mother's room. But Connor keeps them anyway, stowed away in a little box of his own. They serve no purpose, they do absolutely nothing to help Ezio or his mother. Connor never even tells Ezio what he's doing—but he keeps on doing it anyway, for years and years after that visit.

Somewhere along the way, the thought of those feathers and Ezio's hope that his mother will get better and come home again just gets mixed up with Connor's loneliness for his own mother.  _She's_ gone, she's definitely gone, not like Ezio's mother who might come back someday. But they're helping Connor. Not to forget, not to move on--he can't do those things.  But they help him to do what should be impossible without her, which is to have hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really miss when ac games had you collecting feathers instead of animus fragments or helix glitches or whatever. Feathers just fit better.


End file.
